Darkening Shadows
by NightWolfMoon
Summary: It's hard being a personification - fully nation and fully human all at once. All of them have madness raging but do what they can to push it back. With America, this Shadow forces himself to the surface in a way only Canada knows about. He tries to help in any way he can. Sometimes only spilling blood can seal a shadow.
1. Chapter 1

_**Warnings: Cannibalism, violence, gore, and some OOC-ness (though I try to make it fit).**_

_**Also, I'm not yet committed to any pairings (like, I have ideas, but I'm not married either way) other than maybe some FrUK later. Any pairings wouldn't really have all that much to do with the storyline anyway, but I'm keeping that open for now, so feel free to make suggestions.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

**Chapter I**

Canada's stomach roiled at the sight of the meat packaged in the freezer, sealed so it was air-tight. The packages were arranged precisely; the entire house was in fastidious order.

Every bell in the blonde's head rang shrilly.

His hand shook as he shut the freezer door, no longer wanting ice cream. He didn't think he would be able to stomach anything, not now, not while his brother was in this state.

"Cream?" asked the blob of thick, white fur from the marble counter, between the chrome sink and knife-holder.

_Should I hide those…?_ Canada shook his head again. It wouldn't help. Only one thing ever did.

The knives were all in order anyway, none missing, but Alfred never used these knives to kill. His "instruments" were kept in the darkroom added to the basement, the door hidden so that only Matthew knew it existed.

"Later," Canada promised his pet, listening. _Idiot, if he were in that room, you wouldn't hear anything. It's completely sound proof._

Walking out of the kitchen to the front door, Matthew took out his iPhone and checked the last message from his twin brother to make sure he hadn't misread.

**Bottom**, Prussia had changed Alfred's contact name to, but whenever Canada changed it back to **Al**, the silver-haired man would somehow get his hands on the mobile and change it again.

The last text was received at 3:13, just a couple of minutes before Canada had boarded his plane and turned off his phone:

**Let URself in dude! U know  
>where I keep the key. I'll be<br>out doing stuff. Boss on my  
>ass X**

Out.

Canada should have questioned, or at least have been suspicious. America's last episode had been close to thirty years ago, his longest stretch without snapping yet.

Grabbing his tan pea coat from the hook by the foyer, Matthew cursed his past optimism, his hope that the record had meant maybe his brother was cured—he assumed there had to be some sort of cure, since no other nations went through this.

If any had, he would know about it with all the digging he'd been doing over the years, he was sure. His apparent invisibility did have his advantages, he was willing to admit.

_How long?_ Matthew asked himself, locking the front door and sticking the key into his pocket. _All that… meat_.

Most killers that operated as Alfred did never have a "type" like typical serial killers. The victims were often simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, which could make the perpetrators harder to track.

Alfred, though, _did_ have a type, though it changed with each episode. When this part of him took over, the orderliness made Germany look like a slob.

When America started to clean things absent-mindedly or start seeming much more aware of the atmosphere, the warning flags shot up. When Canada saw the signs, he had to find (increasingly difficult) ways to get Alfred somewhere to keep everyone else safe and where no one would find them.

Canada wasn't sure how much time would pass before the episode ended if he didn't intervene.

Each time, he told himself he wasn't really hurting Al; he was hurting the monster.

It never helped. All he could ever think about was the pain he put his brother through, no matter how much America would try to comfort and assure him afterwards.

**Here**, Canada sent, glad he had forgotten to text Alfred after getting off the plane. **Have ice cream? Kuma keeps asking.**

Alfred would be in the county. He would not go beyond Charles Town, not wanting to stray too far. The more miles he went in search, the more miles there were to travel back with the threat of being caught.

He had never been caught, not since by Canada in 1816. He had decided to travel and see if America would be willing to speak to him after the War of 1812, desperate to reconnect with his brother as an individual, even though America's strategy during that war had been to seize Canada's land, thinking he might want to take the chance to escape England as well. He had even burned Canada's Parliament as well as other public buildings in York.

It was not a time either liked to remember.

Canada's government had limited American immigration due to that, not wanting undue influence, the brothers feeling strained.

Sneaking away from his boss's side and traveling to Alfred's main house in Virginia, not far from DC, Matthew had hoped to talk to his twin—restore the brotherly connection between Matthew Williams and Alfred F. Jones, even if the one between Canada and the United States of America were tense.

What he had found…

_Stop_, Canada told himself, jaw set as he headed towards a narrow trail that wound through the woods surrounding the house.

Feeling his cellphone buzz as leaves crushed under his boots, Canada swallowed again and closed his purple-tinted blue eyes. He opened them as he passed the tree line, already hearing the stream not far down the trail. It dried up every spring and summer, according to America, like the pond, which was about a mile away from the house.

A breeze tickled the branches and sent a pack of leaves to fly and spin towards the carpet of those that had fallen before them.

Pulling out his phone, Canada tried to focus on nature's music.

**Nope, no ice cream. Sry bro.  
>I'll bring some. Feel free to<br>do w/e till I'm back**

Taking a deep breath, Matthew texted back, **OK. I'll take a walk and then maybe read. See you later.**

Alfred was definitely out, then. It was well-known that he procrastinated to where everyone joked that the reason his presidents aged so fast was because of how much he personally stressed them out.

He would remember to get the ice cream, Matthew was sure, knowing that he may have already looked in the freezer. He knew that Matthew knew what the meat was. He knew that Matthew knew what the signs were.

He just wouldn't say it. He'd keep acting. He would draw out this game for as long as he could.

The last time Canada had managed to drag Alfred back to his place to be locked up, three people had already been killed, a fourth locked up in the hidden room, unconscious. Matthew himself ended up with two stab wounds, one to the abdomen and one to his left forearm, along with numerous lacerations of varying length and depth.

The first time he had discovered this illness, he had been in denial.

That denial had cost six people their lives, the memory of those dinners making him push away any and all food for weeks until his boss finally intervened and forced something down his throat.

The next three episodes, Matthew had eaten the meals before coming to the horrific realization.

Bourbon pecan steak.

Souvlaki.

Sweetbread salad.

Choice cuts with Dijon marsala sauce and wild rice.

Spicy peach-glazed choice meat served with green beans.

Osso Buco.

Flank steak pinwheels.

Heart stew.

He should have known. He should have questioned.

The impeccable creations, nothing ever burned or undercooked. He always took the most care with these dishes, once telling Matthew that not to do so would be an insult to the humans providing them with such beautiful courses. Such a thing would be a sin—one America claimed he would be unable to forgive himself of committing.

Crumpling next to a tree, hand getting scratched by the rough bark when he grasped at the trunk in a half-attempt, Canada heaved. The sharp, acidic taste and stench filled his mouth and slammed into the back of his nose.

The fluid splattered against brown leaves, the man dry-heaving as his stomach kept stretching and contorting itself in painful shapes.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and his gaze finally rose to look straight ahead as he breathed heavily through his mouth. His vision beyond three feet was blurred, glasses having slipped to the tip of his narrow nose, wiping away the dripping snot with his sleeve.

**x x x**

Tucking his cellphone into his back pocket, America smiled.

The tank was filled, and the blonde put up the nozzle and replaced the cap on his dark grey Ford Escape. It was his favorite vehicle to use during these runs, and they were so popular among his people, it was unlikely to stand out.

Not that such a thing really mattered.

He always found a way out of trouble. As years bled into decades, technology first looked to be a huge block—but it was merely a fun little maze America enjoyed finding new paths through.

Pictures of today's catch would be shown by the media soon, he was certain. Last time, he had been preoccupied with humans on the lower rungs of society. The poor souls hardly anyone missed when gone.

Every single individual within his borders deserved the love so many seemed to reserve for those higher on the social ladder. So Alfred had seen it fit to bring in the outcasts, downtrodden, and unwanted. They had sung for him, voices so sweet and life so warm when it hit his flesh.

It was when hearing those voices, when feeling the life of his humans pour over his hands at his command, that America felt closest to his people. The life of a nation was a hard and conflicting one. They were wholly nation and wholly human, encompassing history and culture while also loving, hating, and feeling the entire spectrum and feelings of self-awareness that seemed to define humanity.

The self-awareness was what hurt most, America figured, getting behind the wheel and bringing the vehicle to life.

He could smell sweat mixed with cologne—citrus and hints of floral with an undertone of ginger and sage. Alfred breathed in deeply as he pulled out onto the highway, deciding on where to go to pick up that ice cream. His nostrils flared as he also picked up sandalwood and cedar. There was also cilantro and pepper, the man having been in the middle of making salsa for a party later tonight when Alfred took him.

The tall man no longer whimpered, probably either resigned to fate or not wanting to show any signs of weakness.

Alfred bet on the latter. He would expect nothing less of an assistant district attorney.

_Now what kind of ice cream should I get…?_ he wondered, seeing a sign for the next exit, alerting that it would be coming up in a couple of miles. _Kuma likes vanilla, and Canada likes butterscotch and maple walnut_.

He might as well get all three, though he already knew Canada was unlikely to want to eat much.

Actually, ice cream may be all he deemed "safe."

_I'll get all three then_, thought America with a grin.

It was getting close to Thanksgiving, so patrol cars were making sure to watch the lots of the local Wal-Marts and Winn-Dixies. He parked closer to the back but not so far as to be suspicious. He then took the syringe out of a special compartment he'd installed underneath his seat.

Drugs needed to be used with discretion. There was a reason anesthesiologists had to go to school for what they did.

Too little, and the human would wake up too early or only be a little groggy, yet still capable of drawing attention to himself if he focused enough.

Not good. It would ruin their little game. One America had been playing for many years, and only one of his bosses throughout the entirety of this game ever suspected it was being played—poor Mr. McKinley.

Too much, and the human would die, which was also no fun.

Alfred would have to be quick with the ice cream. The trunk was done in a way that the body was easily hidden without raising any sort of alarm. America had only needed to adjust the back seats so that he could pull down the arm rest/cup holder and see his newest toy.

He glared, pupils having dilated due to the darkness. Only bands of pale green were left, and his entire face and much of his shaved head was red from exertion and anger.

"Almost there, hon," Alfred purred, uncapping the syringe.

The toy's eyes bugged even before the needle entered his neck. Moments passed as his eyes fluttered shut and his muscles relaxed, and Alfred recapped the syringe and put the arm rest back up before putting the syringe back into the compartment. He'd dispose of it later.

Time to pick up dessert.

He and his brother were going to have some fun tonight.

_**This was mostly borne from me procrastinating on course work, but I kinda like it, so I'll be rolling with it. I draw insiration from Hannibal, but I'm behind on that show, so don't worry about any spoilers. I hope y'all enjoyed the first chapter and will like reading what I have coming soon! :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

As much as France loved watching the full moon while nursing a glass of wine, even beauty could grow utterly boring. The lights of Paris were a gorgeous sight, but he felt itchy for movement.

A good thing about being a nation was the ability to hop on a plane to anywhere at a moment's notice—first class.

Stretching one arm over his head as he moved to the living space, where his cellphone lay next to the empty plate, which before held cheese and bread. He preferred a modest apartment when in Paris. He had larger homes elsewhere, scattered about his land, but they felt empty when he was alone. At least with the lights and sound of Paris, he could pretend he was with friends.

_One call, and I soon will no longer need to pretend_, thought Francis with a smile as he ran his nimble fingers through his silky hair.

He hadn't visited Canada in a while. He was on speed dial.

As the phone rang, France went to retrieve his wine, hearing a mélange of languages from the streets below.

"France?"

Francis blinked, lips pausing at the rim of his glass. It was difficult to gain an ear for the tonal differences in Canada's speech, but it could be done, especially for one who gave birth to musical geniuses such as Jean-Baptiste Lully (Austria wasn't the only one sensitive to sound).

This was the closest Matthew would come to saying, "What the hell do you want?"

"Is something wrong?" Francis tried to think. He had overheard Canada speaking to America at the world meeting a couple months ago. "_Tu es avec ton frère_? Maybe I could come join—"

"_Non_!"

Wine sloshed over the rim as France nearly dropped the glass, and he set it (too harshly) next to the plate on the table.

"_Quoi_—?"

Canada quickly interrupted, making France's heart pound as his brain swam with the possibilities:

"It's just that we planned the weekend to be just the two of us. And it is Al's house, so I don't feel right inviting you over."

"_Je peux demander_—"

"_Il n'est pas ici_," Canada responded, again too quickly. "Not right now, and I'm meeting him at a bonfire. There won't be service there."

Staring at a picture he kept above the stove, France's eyes narrowed as he frowned. "How do you know?"

This was all very suspicious indeed.

Canada wouldn't be up to something, would he? He was a good boy. One of the most genuinely kind out of all of them.

Most of them used smiles as a veneer, but for Canada, it didn't feel like an act.

Even Italy had a bloody shadow, much as France preferred to not dwell on the fact.

Was America up to something? Had he coerced Canada into covering for him? What was going on? Could one or both of them be in trouble? From what?

"_Nous y sommes allés à Noël dernier_," Canada answered, more calmly, more surely. "And this week is his Thanksgiving, so we're going to roast turkey there."

It felt like the tone of one who found his lie and had finally found a place in its path that rode smoothly.

"Well, alright." France's tone was similar, and he could almost see the boy flinch, knowing he had been caught in a falsehood. "_Je vais téléphoner Espagne_. Or maybe Belgium. I have not seen her in a time either."

He could almost hear a sigh in relief, making his frown deepen.

"_D'accord_." Canada said something to Kumajiro, though France could not hear what. "_Bonne nuit_, _France_."

"_Oui_." France walked around the table to get closer to the picture. "_Bonne nuit_."

Canada hung up first.

The photo was of France, England, America, and Canada together for Christmas several years ago. Arthur had managed a smile that didn't look like a grimace. America hand his fingers on his twin's cheeks, trying to make him smile wider, and Kumajiro wiggled in his owner's arms, making his legs a blur.

Still staring at the photo, his heart beating itself against his ribs to where pain radiated throughout his torso, France pressed the 5 on his speed dial.

After three rings, Alfred picked up:

"What's goin' on?"

He was in one of his southern states, but France wasn't good enough at differentiating the accents scattered throughout that region of America's home. It wasn't a Yat accent (France had visited New Orleans enough times to know it).

Canada didn't usually venture further than South Carolina, unless his brother was taking him to Disney World, so Virginia? Alfred had a plantation-style house there, not far from DC. Maybe North Carolina? He had a house by the outer banks, there, right?

Why did the idiot need so many regions? It was hard to believe his ignorant act most times, seeing as he had to keep up with all fifty—or maybe that was why he was such an airhead.

"I wanted to visit and called Canada, but he said he did not feel comfortable inviting me, as it is your home," France flourished, lips twisted in a grimace.

His core was screaming that something was very wrong. He just wished he knew what.

"I don't see why not," America replied. "We're at my place in West Virginia. Little ways outta Charles Town. I can text you directions in a bit."

"Canada said you were going to a bonfire later?" France swallowed, feeling like his heart and stomach were taking hold of his throat. However, he was a better liar than his ex-charge. "Is that only tonight, or would I be able to join?"

"Bonfire?"

France's heart and stomach turned to lead and dropped through his body as if he were made of glass.

"Sounds great! Canada's good at setting stuff up like that. I'll ask. Let me know when you get here." America sounded excited about the visit, and the feeling of dread exploded within Francis, joined by a deep sense of urgency.

He needed to get on a plane. _Now_.

Not bothering with a bag, France headed for the door, only grabbing a scarf and his keys. He didn't even grab a coat, but he barely felt the cold air anyway with the adrenaline pounding through him.

"_Oui_," he managed in a calm voice. "I will."

He hung up after Alfred chimed his good-byes, and as he hailed a taxi, Francis pressed the _1_ on his speed dial.

After a few rings, England picked up. "What the bloody hell do you want?"

It sounded like France had woken him up. Oh, it seemed Arthur _was_ capable of getting to bed before midnight (unless the Golden Caterpillar had fallen asleep at his desk again).

"Something is going on with Canada and America."

England sounded more awake. "What do you mean—?"

"Charles Town, West Virginia." A cab pulled over. "I'm on my way to the airport now."

**X X X**

Shit.

Just one phone call might have been enough to unravel everything. Canada had been keeping this secret for years, and he was not going to let his brother's demon become seen by others. It would be damning to America. He held others' opinions of him so highly, no matter how much he liked to say he was independent and didn't care what others said.

He did care. Too much.

To have someone see him in this monstrous state…

No, Canada was not going to let that happen.

That meant he was going to have to act faster than usual this time around.

"Cream?" Kuma squeaked as Matthew carried him up the L-shaped staircase by the foyer. It led to the balcony that overlooked the den and dining room, and to the left was the room Canada always stayed in when he visited.

It was large enough, though the house was of a modest size. It was acreage that counted, the surrounding land isolating the place from nosy neighbors. The North American twins had always loved camping; many of America's and Matthew's houses were similar to this, their main manors closer to their capitals. America, for instance, spent a deal of time in an old plantation home in Virginia, closer to DC than here.

"Who?" Kuma yawned, blinking slowly as Matthew pushed him into the closet with a large can of tuna he'd found I n the pantry. "Why?"

"I'm Canada, you're owner," Matthew sighed, fingers getting swallowed by thick, white fur as he scratched the animal behind his right ear—his favorite spot. "Just stay here for a while." The room grew darker as the sun sunk further in the west, only a few rays of scarlet left to lighten the sky. "Everything will be okay. I'll get you ice cream later, hey?"

He opened the can for Kuma and closed the door. On the balcony, he could see through the semi-circle window above the front door. A Ford Escape was pulling into the narrow drive beneath the car port.

The port was a metal frame with a tin roof, good enough to keep rain and snow off the car. Matthew could see a shadowed figure getting out of the driver's side, the headlights shutting off and the sky nearly black. Stars were winking into existence, but the moon was not visible from here. It wasn't visible at all tonight, actually, Canada remembered.

Tonight was promised to be dark in more than one aspect.

America got something from the back seats. The ice cream. He then headed to the house, not bothering to lock the car.

Opposite of the guest room was the office/gaming room. In the top drawer, underneath the false bottom was a Ruger LCP 380 Ultra Compact Pistol. It was lightweight, and Canada felt part of himself melt away as he gripped the cool metal and headed down to the first landing of the stairs, where he had a clear view of the front door.

His mouth was a straight line, and his purple-tinted eyes went blank as he widened his stance and squared his shoulders. He held up the gun left hand instinctively going to right wrist to steady it, even though this sort of gun didn't have the kind of kick back others he'd used did.

People often forgot that not only did Canada know how to use a gun, he was one of the best shots out of all of them.

His heart beat steadily as he stood, time slowing down. He could feel his blood moving in his veins, and he was aware of every detail around him. Every sound, sight, and smell was amplified. He existed but did not exist. He was there, holding that gun, but he was also squatting in a dark corner, aware of how his muscles were working but unable to give any input on what they needed to do.

The door swung open, hitting the table holding a bowl of keys and knocking over one of the pictures of the brothers camping in the woods outside.

"Dude—!"

Matthew didn't hear the _pop!_ or feel himself pull the trigger. He wasn't even sure anything happened until America crumpled, the paper bag hitting the ground and a pint of vanilla ice cream rolling out onto the wood floor.

Placing the gun onto the table by the door in the foyer, Matthew looked down at his brother as red quickly spread in a circular shape. It looked almost cartoonish, Matthew's mind and soul still miles away from his body.

He took Alfred's bomber jacket off of him before the blood could stain it, the only thought floating through his mind being how it was Alfred's prized possession and he wouldn't want it ruined.

The jacket was placed over the arm of the easy chair in the den, and Matthew took his twin's arm over his shoulders and dragged him towards the door next to the entertainment system. He opened it and turned on the light, the carpeted stairs and white walls looking out of place—too plain.

The secret door was behind the book shelf. Matthew gently set Alfred onto the carpet. He wasn't bleeding anymore. The kill had been immediate, but as a nation, Alfred's heart would start again soon. Matthew planned on having him strapped down before that happened.

There were small wheels beneath the bookshelf, allowing it to be pushed aside without much trouble. Inside the copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_, was the key. Matthew turned to "Bluebeard" and found the old-fashioned, iron key. Alfred was much more of a drama queen than he would ever admit.

The door swung inward soon as Matthew turned the key, and he put the book back and pulled on the chain that turned on the bare bulb above. This was originally a darkroom, according to Alfred, and the sink and cabinets against the back wall still had the equipment needed for photography. The blonde couldn't draw or paint worth his life, but he had an eye for photos—something else only really Matthew knew.

It was next to a long table. The chair.

Most might see it fitting, it resembling a dentist's chair. Matthew had asked why Alfred kept it when he knew what happened.

"_I've thrown it out lots of times," he said, pushing away the half-eaten veggie burger._

_For a few months after each episode, Alfred swore off meat. More than once, he nearly starved himself, unable to eat anything without it coming right back up._

"_It comes back or gets replaced. I've thrown away the… stuff." He swallowed, blue eyes dull and distant. "But then they're there again." He looked up, tears falling in jagged streams. "I don't care what you have to do, Mattie. Just… help me. Please. Promise me."_

"I promise," Matthew whispered to himself as he went to retrieve his brother's body.

The wound started bleeding again as Matthew lay Alfred onto the chair. His chest rose and fell in short, jittery motions, like his body had to learn to breathe again. His arms and legs were strapped down as his body began to seize, the bullet getting pushed out of the wound as Alfred's body started healing himself. Sweat broke out on his face, and Matthew noticed that Texas was missing.

He walked briskly to retrieve the spectacles, not even flinching when he heard the pain-filled gasp, followed by groaning and swearing.

"I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Pretty heavy gore in this chapter. Just letting y'all know in case anyone's eating while reading this. Enjoy!**_

**Chapter III**

Turning his head, Alfred blinked his eyes open. Next to him was the table, positioned so he could gaze at the knife roll. The cloth was thick and scarlet like a setting sun melting over lake water. It was secured by a strip of leather that he had boiled and braided himself—human flesh wasn't as tough as bovine, so it had needed to be braided to resemble a cord.

The hands undoing the leather strip were covered by latex gloves. They almost matched the milky skin of the bare arms, Matthew wearing only a black tank top and black jeans, which made him look even paler. Black was best at hiding the stains, and Alfred had to stop himself from smirking at the thought.

It was so cute.

Texas was on the corner of the table, sitting atop a folded-up piece of black cloth, designed specifically for cleaning glass.

"Mattie…?" America coughed as the cloth was rolled out all the way, presenting his precious instruments.

Canada didn't even look up as he took a black headband from his back pocket to keep his hair back away from his face. "Quiet."

He had to readjust his glasses after putting on the headband, his curl now lost among the mess of wavy corn silk locks.

"Mattie…" America blinked rapidly, making them wet. "Did… I didn't hurt any—_Fuck_!"

The nail of his left pinky was on the floor, the surgical knife still poised over his throbbing finger.

"I said 'quiet'," said Canada, flat eyes meeting America's.

The world was growing blurrier without Texas, but Alfred doubted he would be allowed that grace. Matthew didn't care about this part of him. He only wanted to punish, to send him back into the shadows of his own mind.

Canada did not understand. He _would_ not understand.

He didn't even appreciate the meals America had crafted so beautifully. He was sure his creations could have even put France to shame, yet Canada just spat in his face upon learning the special ingredient.

He didn't appreciate the fact America shared his people with him to show just how close they were.

Bastard.

"Fooled you last time," America gasped, trying to get his heart under control. He'd been through much worse pain than this, and he would go through it again, soon as his dear brother decided on a course of action.

Always the thinker. It made him hesitate. That was his weakest point—always had been.

Matthew didn't answer.

The round stock blade tip was screwed off and set aside. It was replaced with one that was long and curved, like a bird's beak. He set it down and went to the cabinets in the back. The iodine was kept in the back, behind all the photography crap. Matthew took the spray bottle and set it onto the table, behind Texas. He wasn't going to bother cleaning the instruments beforehand, and he wasn't going to clean America's skin before slicing into it.

The iodine served to further the agony. Last time, bleach had been used. Before that, lye.

Matthew may call him a monster, but he had a demon's knowledge and will.

He just didn't want to acknowledge it as fact.

He was doing good. His actions had pure intentions.

But his eyes were empty. America could not see them hardly at all (just two specks of color), but he knew they were empty. They always were.

Taking the yaganiba knife with a wooden handle, Matthew cut the T-shirt that said **The Cake is a Lie** down the middle, exposing Alfred's chest and stomach. Two more cuts, and the black strips were on the linoleum floor.

The yaganiba knife was put back, and Canada picked the surgery knife back up.

"Don't keep me in suspense, bro," Alfred purred, mouth curving into a Cheshire cat grin.

It didn't look like Matthew was smiling. He never did.

The blade bit into skin just below America's collar bone. It was sharpened to where it caused no pain. A hair could be split in half if dropped on it. But Canada had chosen his tool nicely, pressing down so the bird beak-like tip dug in, hitting bone. Alfred sucked air in through his nose but otherwise did not move. He stared into his brother's eyes as he pressed down again. America's mouth only twitched, smile erased.

His cerulean eyes bugged as blood filled his mouth from biting his tongue to keep from screaming. Crimson splattered Canada's hair and face as America coughed, and he took sharp, shuttering breaths as red bubbled along the line that now ran from his collar bone to between the navel and groin. Matthew's glasses slipped down his narrow nose as he glanced up, still not smiling. His movements were like invisible string was attached to his limbs, moved by a tipsy puppeteer.

And America was the mad one.

They all were. It all came down to which ones had the balls to admit it.

Four more quick slices, deep and sharp. By the time America's synapses jolted to make a gasp escape, the knife was already back on the table. Next came the pins. There was no delay of pain as the flaps of skin were pinned tight to America's sides, exposing his rib cage and the organs it protected.

Matthew paused and watched his brother's face for a moment. Hesitation?

No, observation.

The agony was making Alfred dizzy, and he started to blink rapidly as black stars crowded his vision. Words came out of his mouth, but his brain wasn't working fast enough to catch what he was saying. His heart beat felt _harsher_ somehow. He heard more than felt it, as though the exposure to air made the echoing worse. He could not tell if this was actual or his spinning mind playing tricks.

A prick in his neck, and America's eyes snapped open.

"I can't have you passing out just yet," Matthew said. "I'm not letting _that _happen again."

He was referring to that time during America's civil war. When Alfred had passed out from the pain Matthew had inflicted, he'd been stitched up and put to bed to recuperate. Matthew had assumed when he awoke, he'd be "normal" again.

Then, surprise!

So many citizens that had deserved much better than what fate had dealt become a part of their nation during that time. The only even to rival those numbers was in Wyoming in the 1880s. The Chinese workers had been treated so horribly, but by becoming America's people, they had deserved so much more. Alfred had given them more.

Why could Canada not see that?

While he blinked rapidly, America's breaths became sharper and deeper, even though each one made pain shoot through his entire body like a wave of lightning. Sweat poured down his face and soaked through his hair. Some sweat dripped into him, stinging like needles heated by hellfire.

Setting down the syringe, Matthew picked up the iodine and sprayed one of the skin flaps, finally eliciting a terrible scream that hurt America even more than breathing. A spray of liquid fire hit the other flap of skin, and then Matthew brought a large, metal bowl from under the table.

He tilted his head.

Matthew made room on the table and set the bowl down. "How did you kill that girl last time?" He walked over to his brother and started extracting the small intestine.

The agony was nowhere near the horror of watching it being lifted out from the American's body.

Alfred's howls filled the basement, swallowed by the soundproofed walls.

"How about I feed you your kidney?!" Matthew demanded, voice barely rising over the shrieks. "Isn't that what you did to her? As a last meal? Wouldn't that be fair, _hero_?!"

Alfred could only scream in response as his large intestine was yanked out, the middle crushed in Matthew's grip.

**X X X**

It was past sunrise when France and England arrived at the house in West Virginia. The two had met up at the airport and ridden in the cab, muttering in French (while England didn't like speaking the language, neither wanted the cabbie to eavesdrop) about what was going on.

Both had tried calling the North American twins multiple times since getting off the plane, but neither was answering. The two older nations hadn't slept, and dark circles made Arthur's deep green eyes look sunken in. Francis imagined he didn't look much better. He also hadn't shaved, so his stubble was thicker than he liked this morning. Arthur had a few hairs on his chin, reminding France how he liked to tease how Canada and America couldn't grow nice facial hair because of him.

He couldn't laugh at that memory right now. He couldn't laugh at all or even smile.

Something was _very_ wrong, and he feared that the sweet boy he'd raised (before the dunce beside him took him away) could be up to something malicious.

It was no secret Matthew got angry at Alfred at times.

Francis even knew that Matthew blamed his brother for his relationship with Máximo ending the way it had.

England paid the cabby, since France had left his wallet with his coat at home.

"America's car is here," Arthur noted, gloved hand pointing at the Escape.

Clouds darkened the sky, and France shivered, though it was from more than cold. There were no lights on in the house, or, he told himself, just not from what he could see.

Not saying anything, France marched forward to the front door. Neither of the twins ever locked the doors of their more isolated houses. Few robbers were going to make the trip here; even with Francis and Arthur giving directions, the cabby had still gotten lost twice. (Though in their defense, the directions Alfred had texted Francis hadn't been the best.)

The house was quiet.

Stepping further inside with Arthur right behind, Francis found himself in a puddle of melted ice cream. He could only stare down at the pool of white and yellow-brown. There were a few walnuts, and footsteps led towards the kitchen.

Ahead, over the arm of a dark brown easy chair was Alfred's bomber jacket. France's heart jackhammered at the sight.

America hardly went anywhere without that thing on. Even in summer, he'd keep it on until heat stroke threatened.

England stepped into the foyer and shut the door. He spotted the melted dessert. "What the hell?"

"I'll go to the kitchen," France whispered, looking around. His eyes stopped at the small gun on the table to his left. His heart leapt up into his throat. "You look upstairs."

"Oh, my…" England picked up the gun and ejected the bullets into his gloved hand. "Only one was fired. Since it was last filled, at least."

"If Canada or America shot the gun, one is all that's needed."

Both were quite the sharp-shooters. England, Prussia, and himself had been quite the teachers when the two were young. With muskets, that one shot could mean everything, and even with the modern guns, they had been keeping up their skills when it came to aim.

Oh, how France sometimes wished they could go back to older times.

After putting the gun back and pouring the bullets into the key bowl, England headed upstairs. France stayed put for a moment and inspected the area.

No blood splatter that he could see. Minimal bleeding. An instant kill.

The kitchen smelled like turmeric and coconut. A pan on the stove showed remnants of a curry-like dish. France dipped a finger into the sauce and then stuck it onto his tongue. Sweet with some mild spice.

Curiouser and curiouser.

The pan was cold, but it looked like the food had been prepared only a few hours ago. The clock above the gas stove blinked 12:00. He'd heard there had been a storm late last night.

The grass had still been wet outside, and hardly any animals had been in sight.

It was no weather for a bonfire, which means the boys would have needed to stay in. France would have been fine with the answer that the two had had no signal at wherever the bonfire was. Could the storm have hindered…? No, America had been able to keep in touch with at least one of them in the middle of hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards….

He and Canada should have at least been able to pick up, even if parts of the conversation would be lost due to the weather.

On the granite counter by the sink were some strands of white fur. Kumajiro.

Where _was_ the little guy? He was usually wandering about, and unlike France's pet bird, storms didn't bother him.

As if in answer, England came down clutching the polar bear, who looked to be shivering.

"Scary time," the bear murmured. It had taken time for all of them to get used to that ability, but at least England's magic could be put to good use. Canada would have been lonely for lengths of time as a child without Kuma.

"I found him in a closet upstairs with a can of food, empty," England reported matter-of-factly. He was in detective mode right now, all business. "He kept saying America's name and 'scary'."

Kumajiro wriggled out of Arthur's grip. The blob of fur plopped onto the ground and scurried off back into the hallway and into the master bedroom. France followed, giving an affirmative grunt when England announced he was going to look around the den.

Inside the bedroom, the polar bear crawled beneath the large bed pushed against the center of the back wall. Folders and binders were on the nightstands on either side of the bed, and the deep blue sheets and the galaxy-themed comforter (he and Ivan were both complete nerds when it came to astronomy) were in perfect order. Not even one pillow off-kilter, showing no one had slept here last night. Or even the whole week—France couldn't imagine Alfred making his bed every morning.

Actually, everything in the room looked immaculate.

The pictures and posters were even and looked to have been spaced precisely to keep the walls looking even. The dressers, nightstands, headboard, and footboard were all free of dust, and even the papers, folders, and binders had been stacked meticulously—by color and size, even.

Not even Germany and Prussia were as anal as the owner of this room seemed to be.

The door leading to the bathroom was closed, but upon opening it, Francis saw that it was even more spotless than the bedroom, which he hadn't imagined to be possible.

No way this was America's doing. The boy had a habit of dumping clothes and towels on the floor, often using a "sniff test" to determine what to wear before finally doing his laundry—France cringed at the thought.

The bathroom products were all in order by size of the containers and name of the brand. Everything looked to have been scrubbed clean, the scent of bleach kissing the air.

Back in the bedroom, Francis checked the drawers. All the clothes were folded in perfect squares. Even the socks were arranged by color and material.

Beneath the dresser, pairs of shoes waited, also organized by color. They also all looked to have been cleaned, even a pair of working boots Francis found in the closet.

But where were Canada and America?

Kuma squeaked from beneath the bed, and France closed the closet doors, about to ask him if he'd heard anything when England shouted from the den.

"Get over here! _Now_!"

France ran from the room into the den, Arthur only waiting long enough to catch his eye before heading down the staircase past the entertainment system. There were drops of blood on the pale carpet covering the steps, and Francis felt his heart lodge itself into his throat.

The basement was the size of a large room, and at the back, between the wall on the right and a tall bookcase, was an open door. The door looked like, if closed, it would blend in with the rest of the wall but for the hole with an old-fashion key sticking out of it.

Moaning sounded from the room, and France's heart fell through his stomach, sending out a wave of butterflies with razor-tipped wings.

England burst into the room and crumpled, heaving before stumbling forward out of Francis's sight.

The Frenchman was left frozen at the foot of the stairs, the stench already overwhelming. It made his eyes water, and bile inched up his throat. He managed to swallow it down as he ordered one foot in front of the other. He did this again and again before crumpling where Arthur had, the Brit now at the side of the mutilated man strapped to the chair in the center of the room.

Bile ended up on the linoleum floor, burning Francis's throat and nostrils. Mucus dripped from his nose, and he didn't bother to wipe it away. Tears pricked the backs of his deep blue eyes, and he stumbled forward, nearly slipping in his own spillage.

There were drops of blood all around the chair, and the knives on the table next to the reclining chair were stained with red and flaky brown. There was also a large, metal bowl filled with… Francis crossed himself three times, muttering the Apostle's Creed beneath his breath.

Next to the bowl was a pair of glasses France knew too well, and—_Oh God_.

France stopped in the middle of his third Hail Mary. Next to the sink in the back was a plate with remnants of the same sauce as was in the kitchen. France doubled over and heaved again as the figure strapped down moaned.

Dear God, he was conscious. The whole time?

France prayed he hadn't been.

No one deserved that kind of torture.

It was torture even Satan would deem too cruel.

"Iggy…?" Alfred croaked.

"Bloody hell…," England breathed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Somehow managing to crack a smile, America slurred, "I'm close enough, huh?"

France heaved again, nose running and eyes watering.

"Canada," he managed, almost holding the table to keep himself from crumpling to the ground again. But he refused to touch the thing holding those instruments of such evil and found the strength to stay on his feet. "Where is he? Did he do this?"

America's expression grew pained, tears leaking from his eyes. "He's sick," he hiccupped, wincing with each inhale and exhale.

His pupils were so big, his eyes looked black sounded by red from ruptured veins. The skin around them was dark, contrasting against the waxy pallor of the rest of his flesh. He looked dead.

Hell, if he were mortal, he _would_ have died _hours ago_! This was the curse of immortality. Torture could go on for as long as the demon inflicting it wished.

"Mattie's sick." America's eyelids fluttered. He looked ready to black out. "We… have to help him. He needs help." His exposed lungs grew in shuttering motions and then shrank. France felt ready to vomit again, but he could only stare. "Please..."

_**I have a couple other stories I've been needing to update, so the next one for this might be slow. However, some asshat decided it would be fun to bash in the back window of my car as a trick for Halloween. So I'll probably work on this a little faster and pretend it's said asshat getting his guts carved out. Because that's how writers cope when shit happens. *ahem* Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed the chapter and will like what's to come!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

The poor man's family. They'd be devastated. Canada didn't know who the guy was or what he did, and he didn't want to know. He didn't want to know what group the monster had set his sights on this time. What "poor, downtrodden" people he felt needed his "help."

He thought Canada didn't understand.

He did.

Canada's hands were not clean, even if they seemed close to spotless when compared to some of the others. His home still had racial profiling, and discrimination when it came to his judicial system was not unheard of. Same-sex marriage was legal, but making a law to allow equality didn't magically make citizens accept the people said law helped to protect. Hate crimes against gay couples increased dramatically in 2008, and Matthew could not forget all those assaults against those in his homeless population.

And America hadn't been the only one to exploit Chinese immigrants for railways.

No, none of their hands were completely clean, but they strived to be good. But as nations, morality could be shaky at best, often contesting with their personal views of right and wrong.

Taking a breath, Matthew tossed the shovel into some shrubs by a crowd of birch trees. He would retrieve it later and put it back in the shed. Alfred was still opened up in the basement, hopefully unconscious from the Diprivan. Matthew needed to put Humpty Dumpty back together, so he could heal more quickly. It would be a few days before a new kidney grew into place, but until then, Alfred would just need to drink lots of water and watch his salt intake.

"If he's back to normal," Canada murmured, sticking his gloved hands into the pockets of his pea coat. It was colder today, his breath misting. The sky was overcast; it would probably sleet later today.

Glasses slipping down his nose, Matthew stared at the grave by the large oak, several feet from the bank of the pond. It had taken hours to dig just four feet, and even with his leather gloves, it felt like blisters were forming on his hands. They were stiff from the cold, and his face and neck felt frozen from sweat. His hair cracked when the wind made the locks shift.

He'd washed the blood from his body, but he had put the same clothes on, the dark material of the tank top and jeans stiff from blood stains. The shirt itched from the fluids rewet by perspiration, and the coat was no longer enough to keep Matthew warm.

"Please let America be back to normal," Canada whispered, pushing his glasses back up into place as he turned his eyes to the grey sky. It looked as though God were saying he had no time to listen today.

Sighing, Matthew turned and head back up the narrow trail. A machete needed to be taken to this place again, nature trying to erase the idea of humans (or, more accurately, personifications) had been wandering through it.

Up a small hill and going around a sycamore, Matthew stopped.

Leaves crunched, and there was a muttered oath and the sound of leaves sliding—the storm last night had made the ground slick.

His breath catching, Matthew pressed himself against the trunk of the sycamore. His heart pounded in his throat and echoed in his chest and stomach.

"Matthieu?" called Francis as more leaves and sticks crunched.

Hearing his voice made Canada double over as one hand clawed at the tree, sending pieces of bark to the ground. He felt torn between crying, screaming, running into his ex-guardian's arms, and knocking him out to keep him from discovering what happened last night.

"I heard footsteps this way," said Francis, voice sounding like he was looking around as he spoke, unsure of where his target was but knowing he was close. "_Je sais que tu as ici_."

_Did he come alone or bring someone else with him?_ Canada wondered, mind spinning and stomach tying itself in knots. _Did he already see Al?_

He had closed the door leading to the basement, but he had left the one leading into the hidden room wide open.

Shit.

"Matthieu?" France sounded closer.

Canada needed to get to the house. On the off-chance France had come alone. Even if he had already seen America, Canada couldn't let him set him free. Not if America was still in his monstrous state. Canada couldn't let anyone get hurt. He couldn't let anyone see his brother as he was, not like this.

Maybe France would listen?

Yes, Matthew would find a way to make him listen—

Pain exploded through Matthew's shoulder when he was only three feet from the tree. He hissed and sucked air through his teeth as he fell and rolled over his other shoulder, hand grasping at the wound. He managed to get up on one knee, looking up at his ex-guardian, who pointed a gun at him.

The same gun Canada had used to shoot his brother.

Gasping more from fear than pain, Matthew managed, "Papa—"

"_Non_." France's eyes were hard and resembled slate. His hair looked like he hadn't showered in a couple days, and his mouth was a straight line. "The boy I raised would have never done that to _ton frère_."

_He saw_, Canada realized, heart pounding so hard, it felt as though his ribs were cracking. "_Je_—"

The gun rose from aiming at Matthew's stomach to his heart.

"Don't you dare deny it," France whispered, the wind almost stealing his words. A stray tear ran down one cheek. "I do not want to know why—"

"_Ne l'écoutez pas_," Matthew begged, eyes stinging as his voice cracked. "You don't understand—"

"How could anyone understand _la torture je vis_?" France demanded, voice loud and sharp.

Canada knew how the entire scene looked. Alfred was the one strapped to the chair, body open and a bowl filled with Al's intestines. If Francis had noticed the missing kidney, it would not have taken long for him to figure out what had been cooked in the pan in the kitchen.

_I have to get to him._ Canada could only think of his brother now. If Matthew was captured, and Alfred was set free and wasn't back to his normal self…

He did not want to think of the consequences.

Swallowing, Matthew sprang up and ran, hearing three shots ring and feeling white-hot flames lick his leg—a graze.

Weaving around trees, Canada clutched his injured shoulder as he ran, sucking down cold air as thunder rumbled above. It had grown darker, the surrounding woods alive. They grasped and scratched and poked and prodded. They tried to trip and snatch him up, as if the spirits were aligned with Francis.

Matthew and Alfred were both adept at finding their way through forests. Most saw them as city-dwellers, but urban areas were simply a different form of the mazes nature crafted.

Leaping over a huge bush, Matthew ended up rolling over his injured shoulder and let out a string of oaths in multiple languages as he got back on his feet and made a sharp turn to run in a zigzag pattern around the trees. He used his momentum to kick off of tree trunks to change direction on a dime, the slippery forest floor barely an issue.

France was having a hard time keeping up, and Canada soon had the house in view.

"_Angleterre_!" France screamed as Canada passed the car port.

_Fuck!_ thought Canada, gritting his teeth. France _hadn't_ come alone.

"England!" Francis cried again, huffing as he ran. "He's in _la maison_! _Arrêtez-le_!"

Feeling Arthur would be in the basement trying to put Alfred back together, Matthew shot up the stairs, Francis passing the threshold as he reached the balcony.

"Up there!" the Frenchman shouted as England came up the stairs. He wore latex gloves that were covered in blood, and an unopened suture packet was still in one hand.

Panting, Matthew tore off his coat and chucked it at Francis as he raced up the stairs. It only made him hesitate for a fraction of a second as he batted the tan cloth away. England was right behind him, and Matthew took a breath as he leapt over the side of the balcony, shoulder and leg screaming. He rolled onto his uninjured shoulder, but it still felt as though he were being pressed to death. His leg was bleeding from the bullet's kiss, and it burned as if the entire limb were caught in a furnace.

France's and England's curses mixed as they changed course, and Canada slammed the basement door behind him, hearing the crack of wood as he bounded down over the staircase, rolling again but feeling pain shoot up his left ankle. He grunted as England and France tried to open the door, the broken wood and bent and twisted handle giving Matthew a few precious moments.

"What do I do? What do I do?" he muttered, rushing into the hidden room, the door having been left wide open.

Alfred lay unconscious; a syringe on the table behind Texas told Canada England had found the sedatives. The flaps of skin were a quarter-way sewed back up, the flesh already starting to knit itself together. The sutures only quickened the process, but Alfred was bound to feel great pain for the next week as his organs healed and grew back into full working order (immortality could be a bitch).

Walking around the chair, Matthew ran his fingers through his brother's tarnished-gold locks. They moved back with ease, soaked through with sweat. Droplets stuck to Canada's dark brown glove and dripped to the ground.

Alfred looked calm, but his pallid skin was wax-like, making the dark circles around his eyes making it look as though he were in the process of doing skeleton-themed make-up. Blood stained his mouth and dripped from his nose, and his veins looked too dark.

He looked so fragile.

The sound of wood crashing echoed through the basement, followed by cursing and heavy footfalls coming down the stairs.

They already saw Canada as the monster.

Lips rolling inward, Matthew's eyes glanced down. He kissed Alfred on his forehead as England and France reached the room, and as Canada straightened, he realized he had grabbed one of the carving knives from the table.

"Cana—"

The knife sunk into the wall next to England's head, splitting hairs. Color drained from his face, and his wide eyes were bright with disbelief, anger, horror, and fear.

Canada did not care about being seen as the demon.

France dove forward, ducking as Matthew chucked another blade. It sunk into the wall, and he grabbed two more knives as he ducked and spun on one foot. Arthur stumbled but righted himself, catching the Canadian by his wrist before the tip of the blade could touch his forehead.

A moment of hesitation. Matthew was as strong as his twin; he could easily shove the knife down.

But he couldn't.

England gave a sharp twist, and the knife clattered on the ground.

Canada twisted and rolled, shoulder screaming and the other knife falling from his hand as he picked the first one back up. His injured arm was next to useless now, and his leg still felt like it was on fire. The ankle of that same leg was sprained, and it already felt like it was swelling, pressing against the sides of the boot.

Sweat kept his hair plastered to his head, neck, and face. It rolled into his shirt, making it stick to his skin. He shivered, and his vision kept blurring at the edges.

As long as America could keep his image as the hero, Canada was okay with what happened to him.

Dodging Francis and twisting around Arthur, Matthew brought the knife down and caught England just below his shoulder. He swore as he tripped, Francis stumbling as he danced around him to try and grab Matthew's arm.

Forcing a smile as his eyes burned from tears straining to be let loose, Matthew used an undercut to sheath the long blade into France's stomach.

"This is exactly the boy you raised," he whispered, voice somehow remaining even, though his throat felt as though it had become stone. _You raised me to always love and fight for that love, no matter the lengths_.

Gasping and coughing, Francis crumpled to the ground, and Arthur froze, eyes wide as he stared.

Black stars crowding the edges of Canada's vision, he forced his injured arm to move as he grabbed Alfred's head. He had hoped Alfred would have been shocked back to his usual self from the gunshot. It had worked the first time—at least, while Canada had pinned him down and had dug out the musket ball out of Alfred's chest using his fingers.

Not even forcing Alfred to eat one of his own organs hadn't shocked him back, but this had to work. He'd never suffered this much before. He had to be close to switching back.

Matthew didn't hear what Arthur was screaming. He was barely aware anyone else was still with him.

Just one, sharp movement, and Alfred was no longer breathing, though he still looked to only be asleep, if not for the _snap!_ Canada had felt shiver up his arm.

America's system would kick start again, but with the sedatives and mutilation, it would take much longer than the gunshot wound.

"I promise," Matthew murmured before suddenly staring into blazing green eyes as a shockwave of pain exploded through his chest.

The world went black before he hit the floor.

_**I didn't forget about the man in the trunk. But whether he died from accidental drug overdose because of Al or if Mattie decided it was better to kill him, I'll leave that to imagination. *innocent smile* Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter, and there is more to come! :)**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

Hands pushed Alfred back against the bed as he jerked and gasped, lungs begging for air but windpipe unable to remember how it functioned.

There were sounds. Alfred distantly recognized them as words, but he could not comprehend any of them. They were merely discordant notes stabbing his ears as the hands held him down and the sheets and comforter seemed to morph into flat rocks.

"_More weight"_ he could almost hear, the blankets pressing down slowly but severely.

"… ax… ca… vry… rig…"

The hands pulled back, and another pair pushed him at an angle as acid roared up America's throat and spewed over the side of the bed. He coughed and was pushed further, the first pair of hands holding him by the upper arms. America's chest and abdomen shrieked in protest at the movement, and it felt as though a jackhammer was being taken to his lower back, just left of his spine.

It felt like hours of dry-heaving, lungs still crying out and stomach attacking itself. Tears were pouring down his cheeks, and snot ran from his nose. All he could taste and smell was bile, the fluid feeling as if it had coated the entirety of his mouth and the top of his throat, unwilling to fade.

"… right…"

There was humming. The tune was vaguely familiar—more so than the words.

Air flew down Alfred's windpipe and clashed through his lungs with a force akin to if a seismic wave could spawn lightning.

Gasping as the jagged spikes raked through his chest and tore his ribs, Alfred was laid back down. The pillows might as well have been rocks coated with railroad spikes.

Someone was petting his head, but Alfred couldn't open his eyes to see who. He didn't want to.

There was only pain, and anything more would shatter him.

Consciousness wavered, and the next thing Alfred knew, there was a straw by his dry lips, which felt cracked.

"Drink."

The word held meaning; it wasn't a discordant note pinging through his head and clogging up his neurons.

Bottom lip trembling, America opened his mouth and felt a _pop_ in his jaw. He coughed and felt plastic touch his bottom teeth and tongue. Crust glued his eyes shut when he tried to open them; water dribbled over his bottom lip and out of the corners of his mouth. Some managed to trickle down his throat, someone holding him up enough to help gravity get some fluids into him.

"That is enough," whispered someone, and the plastic tube was taken away as Alfred was lowered back onto the pillows.

Yellow specks broke as slime ran from a tear duct, America trying to get a glimpse of his surroundings. Everything was blurred, and he heard someone behind him saying to rest.

In front of him was green and gold. Staring, soon Alfred recognized sparkling emerald eyes, pale skin, and caterpillar-like eyebrows.

"Just rest, America. We'll be back later with a bit of food for you," he whispered, the rise and fall of the words sounding odd in Alfred's ears. It had a cadence Alfred couldn't pin; Arthur's tongue rolled over the _r_'s, softening them.

"Okay…," Alfred croaked, eyes closing. His tongue felt heavier than lead. "Thank you, big bro."

Next thing Alfred knew, he was being helped up into a sitting position, pillows being piled behind him to keep him in the position. A damp cloth wiped away the crust and slime around his eyes. Another damp cloth wiped his mouth and nose, and the blond man slowly blinked as a pair of spectacles was placed onto his nose, the temple tips hitting his ears at first as the person swore while trying to put them onto Alfred correctly.

The nation's brow furrowed as the glass righted his vision. He couldn't recall needing…

Years, decades, and centuries slammed into America's head, making him double over as pain flared through his lower back and up his chest and abdomen. He clapped his hand over his mouth as Texas slid to the tip of his nose. Nothing came up, and there was swearing.

It was England, saying some of the hot soup spilt onto him.

"America." It was France, sitting on the bed next to him, slowly pulling America back against the pillows. "Everything is alright. You have been recovering for three days now. You need to eat."

"Three…." America's throat was sore, voice hoarse. "My boss—"

"He has been called," Francis assured, turning Alfred's head slightly so he could meet his sky blue eyes. His hair was pulled back, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple days. "Everything is alright. What do you remember?"

"Not now," England asserted, sitting on the edge of the bed, near Alfred. "He doesn't need to think of that now." He dipped the spoon and then held it up to America's lips. "Eat."

He sounded curt, but his eyes were soft, shimmering with concern.

Eyes glancing down as Francis pushed Texas up Alfred's narrow, lightly-freckled nose. The soup was yellow with pale strings and chunks of green, orange, and pink-brown.

"It's just chicken noodle," Arthur promised, the corners of his mouth dipping down. "All I could find in your pantry."

The pantry.

Kitchen.

America had been preparing venison. Just because he liked fast food, didn't mean he didn't know how to cook, and he'd found a good-sized doe on his property. A good deal of the meat had been donated to a soup kitchen in the nearest city, but Alfred liked to make venison steaks, burgers, and jerky. Matthew would be visiting in a week, so Alfred could maybe—

Mattie.

The chair.

Those people.

_Oh God_. America stared at the pink-brown bumps in the soup. _It's not them. It's not them._

A judge. A homicide detective. An assistant district attorney.

"The course in your refrigerator was going bad," France sighed. "I am sorry. We had to throw it out. But I can make something with what you have in the freezer and pick up some vegetables and spices when you can—"

The soup was knocked over as America jolted out of bed, falling to the wood floor with a hand clamped over his mouth as he retched. A bit of bile mixed with saliva was all that came up, seeping between his fingers.

"Canada," he gasped out as he heaved, nose starting to run—or bleed. He couldn't tell, and his eyes were watering again. "Canada. Where is"—he heaved again, stomach desperately trying to eject what was no longer there—"he?" He looked up, dizzy, England on his knees in front of him, trying to push him up to a sitting position by his shoulders. "Where's Mattie?"

Arthur's thin lips parted, pressed together, and parted again. He and Francis helped him back up into bed as the Englishman inquired, "How much of it do you remember?"

There was something about the word _it_.

_He saw_, America realized, wanting to throw up. Scream. Tear the house brick by brick, panel by panel. _He saw, and they think Mattie's behind everything._

And Canada went along with it because only God knew why.

America had to tell them the—

It felt as though every synapse through America's brain was firing at once, and he gasped sharply as he grasped at the sides of his head, nearly yanking out his hair in clumps.

"America!"

France and England were speaking at once, their languages mixing. Indecipherable.

Swallowing, America nodded, hands shaking as they lowered and grasped at the sheets. He felt hollow. Just a heart inside of a cold husk.

_Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum._

The echoes trembled through his limbs and up through his head like seismic waves. It felt like static was cascading down each strand of hair, and he was slowly being filled with ice melt.

"I'm okay," he gasped, every syllable measured. "I'm okay."

His eyes went to the soup on the floor. The liquid was seeping into the wood. If it was left, it'd warp. Alfred swallowed, trying to squash the urge to clean it up. He couldn't let them grow suspicious.

_Ugh, blood_, he thought, looking at his hand. _Please tell me none of it got on my sheets. Blood is a nightmare to clean_.

"I'll go make another bowl," England said as France brought in some hand towels. "Alfred, lie down."

Swallowing again, America shook his head. "No, um, I'll take a shower first."

"Can you manage it?" asked Arthur, picking up the bowl and spoon.

He looked so worried. It was adorable.

Making his smile look strained, Alfred nodded, the motion sending the room tilting. He was really starting to feel the hunger and thirst now. His head felt light, and his core was hollow—no, hollowness didn't account for the dull, gnawing pain.

"I should be fine." He let France help him to his feet and walk around the spillage and bed towards the bathroom door. "I'll leave the door open a bit," he added.

"_D'accord_." Francis left him to go into the bathroom himself. "Let me know if you need anything."

My, my, he hadn't been this kind to America since the Revolutionary War. The younger nation looked back at him and offered a wavering smile, remembering how he'd looked up to France all those years ago.

How the years had passed, and how the world has changed.

In the shower, he turned the water up to scalding, needing to scrub off three days' worth of grime, plus the soup and spit from just recently. His nose had already stopped bleeding.

The luffa took off a layer of skin along with the dirt, and America was half-blind as he washed, Texas by the sink—the steam would only fog the glass and cut off his vision completely. The bandage covering his left pinky was getting soaked through; it would need to be changed after his shower.

He could vaguely hear Francis in the bedroom over the spray of water.

The Frenchman was cleaning, and Alfred trusted he would be thorough enough. He often acted laissez-faire, but he was quite orderly, especially when it came to caring for another's property.

When the water began to cool, Alfred shut it off, hands going to the wall to hold himself up. He took in deep breaths through the nose and exhaled in gasps. His lower back felt like a hammer of lightning was beating just left of his spine repeatedly. Half of the lightning ended up inside his body, and the two hammers continued to beat with increasing frequency and intensity.

"Goddamn…," America grunted through clenched teeth, feeling dizzy from the pain.

Sparks from the hammers slammed into his abdomen. The pain shot up to his clavicle before dive-bombing down to his groin and then rocketing back up again. It was like a bungee cord not adhering to the laws of friction, thus never slowing.

Pressure pressed the back of Alfred's throat, but there was nothing to come up. He ended up dry heaving as water dripped from his hair and the steam swirled around him, slowly fading.

"_Amérique_?" France called from the bedroom, the door squeaking as it opened.

_Ugh, something else that needs to be done_, America thought, trying to hide his sneer in case the older nation saw. "Don't come in, I'm fine."

A pause. Then: "Are you sure?"

A deep breath. America straightened and grabbed the towel hanging over the shower's door. "Yeah. I'll be out in a bit. My back just hurts."

A small sound, and America smiled as he dried his hair, knowing what the sound was.

France was digging for strength to keep from gagging, but he wasn't doing too good of a job.

France knew what Canada had made America eat. He knew, and it was burned into his memory.

Memories could be so cruel in that way. They did not just overstay their welcome. They hid and slammed into the frontal cortex at the worst of moments, forcing a replay of that time in life. They were also notorious for dredging up fear with much more accuracy than facts.

This was true for countries most of all.

It was easy for facts of history to become lost, but the big bad wolf gobbling innocent Granny in the woods was a tale that knew eternity better than any living being could ever comprehend.

One day, people may very well forget Galileo Galilei, Martin Luther, and Alexander the Great, all outlived by that girl who slept in the cinders and had birds peck out the eyes of her cruel stepsisters.

People would remember the seventh wife who discovered the six before her in a room hanging from hooks, dead, with a pool of blood covering the floor.

People would remember the trail of crumbs and pies baked out of the bodies of lost children.

America was sure of this. People did not remember their own. Only the emotions they created while walking their short, brisk walk upon the Earth.

The now-wet towel went into the hamper between the counter with the sink and the closed door leading to the toilet. There were clothes hanging on the doorknob of the door, likely from France—an Iron Man T-shirt, boxers, and sweatpants.

The soiled bandage went into the plastic wastebasket underneath the sink next to the spare hand towels and wash cloths. Behind the waste basket was a First Aid kit, and America retrieved it after getting dressed and putting on his glasses. The nail on his pinky was growing back, and while the skin was pink and fleshy, it didn't look inflamed or swollen. The nail should be grown back within a day or so, but having it ripped out had been painful.

Maybe not as much as having his intestines and kidney taken out while still conscious, but it was obvious to see how ripping off fingernails had been a successful means of torture.

Biting the tip of his tongue to stop from humming, Alfred opened up the First Aid kit and taped a soft cotton bandage to his left pinky to cover the healing wound. The pain in his abdomen and chest flared up, and the blonde hissed as he breathed in deeply, held it, and then breathed out slowly.

Matthew had not been this vicious in some time. Thirty years ago, he had only done surface damage, carving symbols and words into Alfred's skin. He smirked at the memory as he looked into the mirror.

"_Amérique_?" France called, and America made his smile drop and deep blue eyes go distant.

"Yeah," he rasped, coming out of the bathroom with a hand over his stomach.

Instantly by his side, Francis helped the younger nation into his bed, pulling the galaxy-print comforter up to cover his legs. The pillows were fluffed so he sat up, England entering the room.

"Here we are," he said, trying for a smile but looking exhausted.

Had either of them slept at all that Alfred had been recovering?

_How sweet…_, he thought, taking the bowl from Arthur. "Thanks, Iggy." _This should do until my next masterpiece._

**_French:  
>"D'accord" = "Okay"<em>**

**_Okay! I have Canada's boyfriend chosen now, and he'll show up in the next chapter. England and France may need some help, and America and Canada definitely need help._**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

Light faded as clouds passed over the sun, choking out its light. Romano never slowed his pacing, heart racing, and shoes slapping the wooden floor with every step. He walked from the wall made up of ceiling-high windows to the archway leading into the kitchen and back.

He had never been so happy that Feliciano was with that Potato Bastard before.

The younger of the brothers would just be worried about the southern half, asking questions incessantly and coming up with solutions that would make absolutely no sense.

Most of it would be to try cheering Romano up—make him laugh. It rarely worked, but there were some things in which Feliciano refused to wave a white flag.

Blinking quickly and harshly, Lovino shoved his twin from his mind as he kept pacing. If he kept this up any longer, a path would end up permanently etched into the floor.

Canada hadn't answered in the past three days.

Scratch that. There had been a response to one text, but it definitely hadn't been from Matthew.

It'd been from someone who had no idea of the relationship and only a shallow idea of how the blonde acted and spoke when in love.

Heat rushed to Romano's face as he stopped short in his pacing.

Love?

"Idiot," he muttered, taking a deep breath as he stalked back to the coffee table, the phone next to the empty cup. _He's not in love. You are, you idiot, but he's… He…_

Blinking rapidly, Romano took a breath. He could never think of any ulterior motive Matthew might have being with him, but there had to be one. There always was. Even Spain had complained at first when Austria had tossed Romano his way.

He'd wanted Veneziano instead. Everyone did. Even a portion of their people. Lega Nord would see them become separated again.

People always left Romano sooner or later.

Sniffing, Romano swiped at one eye with the back of his hand. Like hell he'd cry like some sissy.

Coffee had probably been the last thing he needed, but it was habit to down a cup each morning. The curtains were all drawn, the ceiling-high windows making up the wall letting in enough light to see by. The manor was near Villa Gregoriana, secluded by the lush trees marked by autumn's explosion of color.

A final farewell before winter clutched the land.

Taking another deep breath, Romano rolled the sleeves of his light green button-up shirt to his elbows before picking up the mobile.

Lovino knew his boyfriend would be visiting that Hamburger Bastard, but Matthew didn't ignore him.

**He poison the food yet?** Romano had texted.

Due to Alfred having been raised by Arthur, Lovino would often joke with Matthew about Alfred's cooking skills, despite (or maybe especially because of) being told Alfred actually cooked well—he was just too lazy to do it much. Even so, Matthew often at least joked back that at least Alfred wasn't trying to make gourmet.

Lord knew that probably never ended well.

But the only response from Canada's phone had been from a day after Romano sent the text: **Everything's fine. Really busy. I'll call when I can.**

Something was wrong.

Matthew would have said, **Still alive. Stay tuned.** Or maybe **World… getting… darker…**. Romano could even expect, **Getting dark. Dizzy from food. There's a cabin in the distance. I'll be staying there. I'll call you in the morning.**

And then he'd coerce America into making some sort video on his phone with him to make it look like they were in that stupid movie. What was it called? Right, _The Blair Witch Project_. (America's skill at horror was mediocre in Lovino's opinion, but that was probably due to his exposure to Antonio's collection.)

Canada could be a huge smartass. Only, few people ever realized it, seeing as few people ever realized he was in the room in the first place.

Only two people knew Romano and Canada were dating: Veneziano and Prussia.

America probably suspected, but according to Canada, he preferred not to talk about either of their love lives.

For once, Veneziano's big mouth wasn't to blame for how the white-haired bastard found out. He always managed to get into Canada's phone and saw some of the messages (before Canada started deleting them). Matthew said Prussia always changed Romano's contact name to **Teacakes**. It was a reference to Leonarda Cianciulli and acted as a warning to what would happen if Lovino ever hurt Matthew.

_That can never happen_, thought the Italian man as his curl drooped as his lips thinned. The screen of his Galaxy S5 Mini darkened, and he tapped it with his thumb to keep it from going black. His pale green eyes with hazel ringing the edges stung with threatening tears.

Lovino didn't hurt people. He never got the chance.

People left before any acts could be done against them, and he always feared it would only be a matter of time before Matthew decided Lovino wasn't worth his time and left too.

A part of his brain whispered that Matthew was ignoring him. He didn't want to deal with him anymore and was thinking of a polite way to break things off.

The Canadian was always so polite and soft-spoken. He'd probably never dumped anyone before. And Lovino was spoiling that record by having been with him.

The dark whispers coiled around his heart and squeezed tightly. Romano tried to swallow and finally collapsed onto the couch, unable to keep standing.

"No," he murmured.

The coils loosened.

"No," he said more loudly, surely. "There's something wrong."

But to find out just what, Romano needed help—something he hated, especially when it would be coming from _him_.

Scrolling to the right name, Lovino took his cup back to the kitchen.

As Lovino set the cup into the chrome sink, the ringing stopped, and Lovino pressed his free hand against the marble counter. There was a window above the sink, and he stared out it, heart thundering as he mouthed a prayer for Matthew.

The grumbling German told Romano that he'd just woken up: "_Was zur Hölle_—"

Romano spoke through his teeth as his eyes narrowed: "Something's going on with Canada, I need your help."

Somehow, he'd remembered to speak slowly enough so Prussia would understand. Both were fluent in multiple languages, but Romano often spoke too quickly for anyone but Veneziano to understand—though Canada was slowly getting better at understanding him.

While oftentimes seeming like he never took anything seriously, Gilbert would never think Romano was joking about something like this, especially if he was actually asking for help.

After a moment of stunned silence, Prussia said in Italian, "I'll be at your place soon."

"House by Villa Georgiana. It's not far from Rome."

"I'll be there soon."

He hung up, and Lovino went back into the den to stare out the windows, his heart thundering within his chest.

**X X X**

While England watched over America as he slept, France grabbed a flashlight from one of the cabinets of the entertainment center in the den. Three were kept with three boxes of candles, organized by type and how much they'd been used-up. All the candles were white, though for the used ones, there were spots of black from smoke and soot.

It was odd seeing how clean America was keeping his home, but it did make finding everything much easier. France didn't know how much time the younger nation spent in this particular home (he had one in each state after all), so maybe making it easier to find everything had been the point.

The small, black flashlight was heavy in Francis's coat pocket. His hair was pulled back, and in the large, rectangular mirror above the couch, he could see that he still looked paler than usual. He was also clean-shaven today, and the beads of his Rosary peaked out from underneath his tan coat. He'd been putting on his Rosary after praying with it, something he hadn't been doing in a while.

Catholicism was still a majority among his people, but there had been a rising trend of citizens who proclaimed no religion. This often led France to missing mass and skipping prayer without realizing, only to feel guilty about it later, paired with the existential anxiety of thinking his beliefs were entirely dictated by those of his people.

Francis shook his head at the thought. He had been praying often lately, and it came as naturally as breathing.

It felt like when he wasn't helping take care of Alfred, he was praying.

Tonight would be the first he would visit Matthew since the discovery. Arthur had been the one to check the locks and make sure the Canadian wasn't going anywhere. He'd given him food and water as well. Tomato soup. Oatmeal. Never anything with meat.

Stopping in the foyer, France felt like he was going to be sick all over again.

How anyone could…

Swallowing, France pulled a black ski cap he'd taken from America's closet (Lord, what he wouldn't give to have his wardrobe) and pulled it over his head. There was still light outside, but France wasn't sure how long he would decide to speak with his ex-charge. He wasn't sure how long it would take him to get there.

He'd made the decision to go this morning, but he was only just now opening the door.

Swallowing again, he slammed it behind him and stuck his hands into his pockets.

Cold air bit his face, forcing blood to rush to his cheeks and turn them red. Temperatures had dropped again, and it was about negative-three degrees—about twenty-five degrees in Fahrenheit—this evening. According to the news, it should go up ten degrees tomorrow and stay there for about a week.

It was similar in Paris this time of year, but isolation in a wooded area made the cold feel colder.

As he walked around the house to head towards the shed not far past the tree line on the left side of the house, France unwound the long, knitted scarf and did a reverse drape tuck. It closed up space for air to get through and touch his neck, the tails hanging down on his front and ending just above his waist.

The shed was made of pine, and cuffs had been used to limit Matthew's movement—he was just as strong as his brother, though he preferred not to show it off as much.

The first day after he'd woken up, Matthew had managed to punch out the glass of the window in the shed's side. He'd been halfway through escaping when England caught him, putting him down. Metal bars now lined the square, making the structure look much more like a cell than Francis liked. He didn't like discovering what he'd discovered. He didn't like the knowledge of the atrocities his boy was capable of.

His heart didn't break.

It had frozen and shattered and slashed his insides, making it feel as though he were slowly dying. Only, they could not die—not like humans, anyway—and so he was left suffering eternally.

The shed had been cleaned out of everything but a bench and table. Arthur had brought Kumajiro yesterday to spend a few hours with his owner, but the bear was now inside, hiding upstairs.

Animals were so innocent.

It was humans that seemed to take on the traits deemed as beastly. It made it a surety that the nations would have more animalistic sides to them as well.

"Watery soup or chunky oatmeal?" asked Canada as France approached the window. The polite veneer was gone completely, washed away by scant amounts of food and an abundance of cold.

The bench was against the wall opposite of the window, the table underneath the window. England would drop the thermos between the bars.

On the bench was Canada, wrapped up in a thick blanket. He wore boots, jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, sweater, and coat. Underneath everything was thermal underwear, and a heater was in the corner by him. The younger nation's nose was bright red, and his cheeks looked ruddy. He wore a ski cap similar to France's, keeping his hair hidden.

It was amazing how alike the twins looked when their hair couldn't be seen to tell them apart.

The leaves crunched as Francis stopped in front of the window. "Maybe later."

Matthew was still, but then a corner of his mouth jumped upwards. It looked cartoonish; it was like a show rather than a reaction. He wasn't even looking up. He kept his eyes down, glasses halfway to the tip of his nose.

"Alfred is awake," said Francis, not knowing how else to start a conversation.

The smirk fell back to the neutral line Matthew's thin lips had been earlier. "Arthur told me that this morning. Mind asking him how he managed to burn and undercook the oatmeal at the same time?"

England was used to cooking whole oats, whereas America seemed to have instant everything. It was actually a wonder he'd stored so much meat and various seasonings, but France was sure he remembered once hearing America talk about hunting with Bulgaria, Canada, and Scotland.

"You are not going to ask how _ton frère_ is feeling?" France's breath was like white smoke lifting over his face, as though trying to obscure the monster before him—attempt to save him of a morsel of pain.

"England said he's in pain." Matthew's gloved fingers twitched, as though he'd been about to pet Kumajiro before realizing he wasn't here. "So who's been doing his cooking? _Vous ou Angleterre_?"

France's lips thinned. "_Angleterre_ made him soup when he woke up. _Je cuisinais du Poisson en Papillote_. America wants to thank us—"

"_Il sortit de sa chambre_?"

The only sound for several long heart beats was the wind whistling through leaves and snapping the weakened ones off their branches. Even nearby animals seemed to be quiet so as to eavesdrop.

"_Non_," France replied slowly, mind spinning.

Canada had not moved at all, and his tone would not have sounded different to anyone else.

But France had caught the change.

It was urgency. This was the closest Matthew would come to showing panic when he was reining everything in so as to remain calm.

"England and I are continuing to make him rest," France continued in an even voice. "He wishes to cook us a meal before we leave, however. To say thank you."

Several more heart beats of silence.

Then, Canada said, "Oh."

The conversation was over, and France turned on his heel to head back to the house. There was still just enough sunlight that he didn't need the flashlight, though he gripped it anyway as he walked.

Something was going on. Whatever had happened, it wasn't over.

**_I've been slowly falling in love with Romano, and while Feli will always have a special place in my heart (like, my friends even call me Italy, lol), I think Romano needs more love. (And rarer ships such as Canmano and Prumerica definitely need more love.) Anyway, France seems to see something going on but just cannot quite put his finger on what it is. More action will be coming, and I hope it won't disappoint. :)_**

**_German_**  
><strong><em>Was zur Hölle: "What the hell"<em>**

**_French  
>ton frère: "your brother" (informal "your")<br>Vous ou Angleterre?: "You or England?" (formal "you")  
>Je cuisinais du Poisson en Papillote: "I cooked some Fish en Papillote" (dish where the fish is baked in parchment paper; it looks delicious and I want to make it)<br>Il sortit de sa chambre?: "He came out of his room?"  
>Non: "No"<em>**

**_Those who speak either of these languages and see a mistake, please let me know!_**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

Prussia rubbed the back of his left hand, though it was fully-healed already. He shouldn't have tried to put Märchen—too cute a name for that bear-dog—into that dragon costume, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Faery tale, dragon… It had seemed funny up until blood started gushing from his hand.

Looking out the oval window of the plane as his knee went up-and-down rapidly, Prussia's lips thinned. Immortality was as much a curse as it was a gift, but with it gone, it was like being freed from an Iron Maiden onto a high wire strung up above a bed of rusted nails.

How humans dealt with the constant knowledge they could be snatched up by Death at any moment—

_Mein Gott_! Prussia chided himself, facing forward with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. He was aware of those golden-green eyes watching him, but he preferred to ignore the bad-mannered Italian when he could.

How he and Feli looked so alike but held such drastically different demeanors was beyond him. Even he and West were closer in personality than the Italy twins.

A flight attendant with dark hair pulled back into a bun approached. Her bright red lips were stretched in a smile, wrinkles at the corners of her grey eyes.

She took the tray from Lovino's table, and Gilbert leaned over to hand her his.

"Would either of you like anything else?" she inquired in slightly accented English. Her chirpy voice sounded like she probably skipped sleep and took caffeine tablets instead.

Both men declined and gave their thanks. She let them know she would be happy to provide for them whenever they wished. Gilbert felt so stressed, he didn't even crack a joke about that.

At Villa Georgiana, Romano had said Canada hadn't contacted him the past three days. There had been a text, but he was positive it hadn't been from Canada. After reading it, Prussia had agreed.

The lavender-eyed blonde had a dry sense of humor, likely picked up from England. He also didn't usually miss out a chance to use said humor outside of maybe the G8 and world meetings (Prussia used "maybe," as Canada still sometimes cracked jokes, only even more subtle than usual and quietly so only those right next to him could hear).

Matthew was spending the week with Alfred at the house in West Virginia. They liked to camp and hunt together from time to time, Gilbert knowing that the North American twins were close. They had been since they first appeared, Canada first when Vinland was founded. Canada said America had appeared not long after him but was smaller, as Norway's settlements had been in what was today's Canada's territory. (Back then, there hadn't been any defined boundaries, at least to European minds, so many of the twins' memories from back then were shared.)

America, though, preferred to act as though his first days began after his rebellion. So far, only Denmark had been the only one to get more out of him after challenging the kid to a drinking contest several years ago. All the Scandinavians had a soft spot for the North American twins.

Prussia ran a thumb over his knuckles again, finding the thin scars left by that damned dog.

"The hell's up with your hand?" asked Romano in his native tongue, almost too fast for Prussia to follow.

Blinking, Prussia pushed his snowy hair back from his face and tried for an easy grin. He responded in Italian, "Ah, just one of Ludwig's dogs. He doesn't appreciate my awesomeness and bit me before I left."

A slight tilt to the brunet's mouth told Prussia that Feli had said something—the little big-mouth. He meant well, but he never could keep a secret, unless sat down and explicitly told that it was a secret. You couldn't just imply it and hope he'd get the hint. Spain was the same way, and France _acted_ the same way, though everyone who knew him for more than a half-century knew he could read the atmosphere just fine—he just preferred to ignore it.

"So what's the plan soon as we land?" Prussia asked in a rush.

The last thing he needed was Romano worrying over him like West and Austria—goddamn, even Switzerland acted worried around him. The only person who still acted the same around him was Hungary, but even she seemed to get protective at times. Gilbert pretended not to see those flashes of worry in her big, green eyes, but he did—and it sucked.

If there was one person he could rely on to treat him normally, it was the obnoxious and whiny Italy Romano.

Him and maybe America, but that was because Prussia wasn't sure if America didn't get what this meant… Whatever "this" was.

The Republic of Nikko Nikko had become a Japanese citizen, but according to Japan, it was still too soon to see whether he aged as a normal human or not. The fact that humans all aged at various rates and could range from having bones of glass to bodies like America's Superman made it hard to judge.

Also, just because it had taken over a week to heal from an injury that would have taken maybe a day or so years before, it wasn't proof that Prussia was simply Gilbert Beilschmidt, human. The nations' existences were still boxed in mysteries, wrapped up in enigmas, and tagged with questions.

No use to worry over what they didn't know.

Especially with what was going on with Canada and possibly America.

Was Lovino's fear unfounded?

Not completely, or Gilbert wouldn't have agreed to come.

The captain came onto the intercom to announce turbulence. They were getting close to New York. From JFK, Gilbert and Lovino would catch a domestic flight to Eastern West Virginia Regional Airport. Alfred's house wasn't far from Charles Town. Gilbert had been there a couple of times, but he preferred the one in Pennsylvania. The land there was more similar to his and West's home.

"I want to know who sent that text." Lovio looked away and spoke in English. His arms and legs were crossed—closing him off.

The kid had always had trouble opening up. Spain had tried, but there were some hurts even "the Great Boss" couldn't cure by himself.

He'd done a ton of good, but Prussia had to admit it was Canada who was doing the most to help the elder Italian. Overflowing with patience, Canada was always there to lend a hand, an ear, or a shoulder. He didn't find it aggravating to have to reassure Lovino how much he loved the guy, even if the rest of them would eventually feel exhausted.

Prussia had been hurt when Canada had turned him down some time ago, but it had been a blessing in disguise, and though he'd never admit it, he thought Romano was just as good an influence on Canada as Canada was on him.

Prussia, on the other hand, had never really gotten over the younger of the North American twins. He had chalked it up to brotherly pride during the kid's rebellion, teaching him how to hold and shoot a musket and getting him off his lazy ass for drills.

Many of those same drills were still used in America's forces to this day, which Prussia liked to bring up from time to time. The blue-eyed nation would always blush and turn away, glasses slipping down the bridge of his narrow nose.

Eyes closing, Gilbert breathed in deeply through his nose to slow his heart.

_Who am I kidding? He doesn't want a geezer like me_.

Prussia wanted to slap himself the moment that thought ran through his mind.

He was the awesome Prussia! He'd been a kingdom to be _reckoned_ with!

Even God bowed to him, letting him stay here to watch over the kiddies.

Of course that was it.

"Al couldn't have sent it," said Prussia. "He likes joking around even more than Matt. He probably would've quoted one of his movies or comics or something. Was anyone else supposed to be there?"

"No." Romano uncrossed his legs, the right one starting to bounce. "It was America's Thanksgiving… Wednesday? Thursday? And they like to celebrate at each other's house together."

Canada's Thanksgiving was the second Monday of October, and Prussia recalled seeing pictures on Facebook of the two at the Capilano Suspension Bridge in British Columbia. There had been other pictures of them hiking and sharing a meal around a campfire, Kuma curled between them.

America's Thanksgiving was always on a Thursday, so that had been six days ago. Canada had arrived the Friday after so they could spend the weekend together. Something had happened either that night or Saturday morning.

Staring out the window again, Prussia said, "Francis called me Wednesday. He said Normandy was too cold and decided to stay at his place in Paris but got bored. I was busy helping Ludwig learn to play the flute—don't look at me that way, I can be classy as fuck and make Roddy look like a peasant—so I turned him down. I think he said something about not having seen Matt in a long time."

"What could that perverted bastard have done?" asked Lovino in a low voice.

His tone told Gilbert he didn't believe anything nefarious would have been done by France's plan. However, he sounded like the best suspect for who sent the text.

Whatever had happened, France was covering it up or helping to cover it up.

Now to figure out the what and why.

"We are now an hour away from the JFK International Airport—"

Prussia stopped listening to the intercom. Once arriving, actually getting to Charles Town would be much faster than the average human—a nifty trick the personifications were capable of. When rode in taxis, trains, or took domestic flights, humans often seemed surprised to get to their destination ahead of schedule but usually didn't think much of it.

An almost four-hour flight ended up being just over three hours, the trick coming from the taxi driver trying to find Alfred's house. It was a way's out of city limits, and Gilbert didn't remember the way quite as well as he thought he had.

By the time they finally arrived, Romano looked ready to murder someone and threw a wad of cash at the driver before stomping out. The trunk was popped open, Romano going ahead and grabbing both suit cases as Prussia paid the rest of the bill, plus tip.

When he was out of the cramped car, which sped off soon as the door shut, Prussia sighed and stretched. God, he felt old after long trips like that. The cold wasn't helping. Berlin had been about five degrees—thirty-seven in America's backwoods measurements—and this area didn't feel much different. Only, there was a difference between city cold and fucking-middle-of-goddamned-nowhere cold.

At least he had on a coat and thick scarf, but he wished he'd brought a hat and gloves. He'd only been to America's place when it was warm.

Lovino was dragging the suitcases down the narrow dirt trail, and Gilbert jogged to catch up and take his own suitcase. He could see smoke rising above the shadowed canopy, their destination not too far from the paved road.

It was about midnight now, the darkness all-encompassing. The stars were like glowing angels' tears in the sky, and the moon was a bright crescent, huge and hanging like that cat's smile in _Alice in Wonderland_. Prussia half-expected to see feline eyes pop into existence followed by an airy laugh about madness.

It would be one of England's people who'd think up a story like that.

However, with people like the Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Prussia probably shouldn't be one to judge.

Romano didn't speak as they walked, and as they followed the path's turn towards the right, the hair on the back of Prussia's neck stood up. He didn't stop; his lips rolled inward as his ruby eyes narrowed, pale bangs falling over his eyebrows.

England was here, and he was watching.

"Company," Prussia whispered. "Don't stop. Keep moving. I said nothing. England's got his woo-woo shit out, but he's always been all eyes and no ears. I don't have any clue what he's doing here, but if you've got an input, I'd give it now."

After a moment, Romano answered, "Whatever happened, they got wind of it first. I've been thinking, and I think it has to do with America. When a bunch of my people moved to their homes in the early nineteen-hundreds, I remember Canada acting a little weird. I didn't think much about it. The unification between me and _fratellino_ put a lot of strain on me, but I remember Canada going to stay with America for a few days."

"America has a shed past the house. There's a storage underneath. There might be something there. I'll check, and you head to the house."

"_D'accordo_."

Prussia handed Romano his suitcase and ran through the trees. He kept alongside the curving path until he had sight of the two-story house and knew where he was. He then pressed forward, hearing the door open and slam shut.

"Wait!" came a frantic call—England.

Even during the most pressing of times, Arthur always managed to keep a cool, disconnected air.

Prussia ran faster.

Soon, the shed was in sight, and he heard a crash, followed by yelling—sounded like Lovino had caught up to Arthur before the blonde could reach Gilbert.

Patches of earth and fallen leaves were slick, and Gilbert hissed as he stumbled. Pain shot through his knee, but he pushed himself back up, hearing a clicking noise coming from the shed. There were bars over the window, making the building look more like a prison. There were three locks over the door as well as two boards.

_Talk about overkill…,_ thought Prussia, noticing the clicking noise stopped as he approached the window.

Just under the window was a table with a chrome thermos on it, and pushed against the opposite wall was a bench. Perched atop the bench was a hunched figure, curled up in a blanket. He had a ruddy face, and a black ski cap hid his hair. Glasses rested just above the tip of his bright red nose, and he shivered. There was a heater in the corner by him, but it looked to be off.

"Just take the damn soup and leave." The younger nation's voice was hoarse, but he'd still managed to keep a snapping tone attached to it. No cold could put out his fire. "Tasted like shit anyway. You should let France cook my food for once."

There were so many questions rushing through Prussia's mind, but all that managed to escape was a whispered, "America?"

The eyes that rose to meet Gilbert's weren't the pure, calming cerulean of a summer late morning sky. Those reddened orbs that had grown wide as they could go were the violet-tinted blue of an autumn twilight.

"Canada."

"You shouldn't be here." Matthew's voice was low and distant, as though he wasn't quite sure if he was seeing reality or fantasy.

Another scream in the distance said Lovino was still keeping Arthur busy, and Francis was coming out to join the party. A loud string of French swears lifted into the sky.

"Your boyfriend was worried," said Prussia. He didn't know what else to say. He was at a loss. What was going on here? Why was Canada—_Canada_—locked up in this hellhole? What in God's name were France and England _thinking_?

And where was America?!

"You can help him," Matthew breathed, tears welling up in his wide eyes, which had not blinked, even as he pushed up his glasses. "You can help Al."

Gilbert's heart rocketed into his ribs. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

"Whatever they tell you, I did it to help him. I was just trying to be a good brother!" Canada fell to his hands and knees when he tried to jump up, the bench nearly tipping over on top of him and the blanket settling on the ground. His arms shook, and a green tint spread to his face. "He'll listen to you."

Canada looked up, the shine of his eyes as he pushed himself up frightening. Prussia noticed that there were cuffs connecting his wrists, a twin pair binding his ankles. He slowly shuffled to the table, mouth a straight line and eyes practically glowing. When he locked his gaze with Prussia, shivers shot up his spine and scattered over his skull.

"He'll listen to you," Matthew said again as the French swearing grew closer. "But whatever you do, don't eat the food he makes."

Attempting a teasing grin that came out as a grimace, Gilbert chuckled awkwardly, "C'mon, his cooking can't be _that_ bad."

The look the Canadian gave him was like shots of ice melt replacing all the blood in his veins.

"Worse," he whispered, just as France burst in, shouting at Gilbert to get away from the window.

_**Filler, but some background is given, and there is the possibility of a now-mortal Prussia to keep in mind (no fangirls killing me pwease O^O). And since the dog in the comic was only referred to as the 'big pup', I decided to give him the name Märchen. I thought it sounded cute. =3 Anyway, hope you liked the chapter, and we will see what Gil and Lovi will deduce and whether Gil will take Mattie's warning about America's cooking seriously.**_

_**German**_  
><em><strong>Mein Gott! - "My God!"<br>Märchen - This is a type of story, basically a folktale or fable; the most common translation is 'faery tale'**_

_**Italian**  
><strong>fratellino - "little brother"<strong>  
><strong>D'accordo - "Okay"<strong>  
><em>


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

Now there were four toys to play with.

Player Two was stuck in his penalty box, but Alfred was certain that it would not be long before he found the little escape hatch Arthur and Francis didn't know about.

Smirking, Alfred put the cloth and cleaner in the cabinet beneath the sink. Francis had left streaks, and while he and Arthur were conversing with the guests, the younger nation had decided to take care of the problem himself. He hung the gloves over the side of the bucket holding the cleaning supplies and tossed the rag into the hamper before washing his hands.

The door slammed as screaming filled the house, and Texas slipped down America's nose as he sighed, heading back to the bed. He'd been getting cabin fever, but aside from exercises such as jumping jacks, push-ups, and planking, Arthur wasn't letting up to do much. It was like he was a parent again, but Alfred doubted the Brit realized how much of one he was acting.

It was adorable, really, but Alfred couldn't let his lip curl. He sat atop the comforter and started looking over the papers faxed over from his boss.

The first year was always hardest for presidents in many ways, though most would take trying to rescue the economy over figuring out the nature of the personifications any day. Alfred had gotten out of many meetings with cabinet members by telling his bosses there was some sort of "nation-specific illness" he was dealing with.

Most had caught on after a while, but it was still early enough in the term that America's current boss was still trying to wrap his mind around there being walking, talking representations of every nation on Earth. There were even micronations, and personifications of Indigenous tribes.

Setting down a sheet of paper, Alfred scowled.

"_You kill us!" she shrieked, dark eyes like fire-filled smoke. "You take our homes!" Her face switches to an even expression, eyes suddenly hard like black diamonds. "I try to play by your laws. I _won_ that case fair and square." Sparks fire behind Cherokee's eyes as the wind picks up and toys with her raven tresses. "And still you demand more. _Still_ you steal under the cover of _progress_."_

_She spits out the word like it's poison trying to settle over her tongue._

_Trying to keep his shoulders from shaking, America stands tall. This was his sister standing in front of him, wearing a dress that did not suit her. She looked as though she were trying on skin that was not hers, something she had been doing for a long time now._

_Alfred did not want to move her._

_America thought it was for the best._

_Cherokee, however, was right. The Supreme Court ruled that Georgia could not impose laws on the Natives—only the nation could._

_President Jackson had no interest using power to protect the Natives. There was already rising tension with the states, and there was still the debate over whether America should annex Texas or not._

_There was too much going on, too much stress on America. He could hardly take it, and this bitch dare yell at him when he was offering her and her people camps in Tennessee. They could stay there before moving west._

_America was being generous._

"_You are sending my people to their deaths!" she hissed, oblivious to the shift in Alfred's state. "You call us our brother, and once upon a time, we believed it so. We treated you as one of us." _

_She stepped closer, having to incline her head slightly to meet Alfred's cold, blue eyes._

_Their noses touched, and Cherokee whispered, "But all you will _ever_ be is an invader and thief. You speak of strength, but you are the weakest child I have ever had the degradation to lay eyes on."_

_Those dark eyes widened as America took her chin in one hand, yanking her up so her neck was stretched to where she grunted in discomfort._

_Leaning down as he grinned, America whispered in Cherokee's ear, "You are right, Inola."_

_She shivered at his voice, and America wrapped a hand around her waist to pull her closer. She couldn't leave her little brother so easily._

_Eyes closing, Alfred hummed and kissed Cherokee on the cheek. "I truly am sorry about all of this. Your people are my people too, and they deserve much better."_

The door opening yanked Alfred from the memory, and he lifted up the piece of paper as Francis stuck his head in.

Giving a tired and worried smile, Alfred asked, "Is everything alright?"

Stepping further into the room, Francis closed the door as an explosion of Italian oaths filled the house.

Things would get interesting with Player Two's boyfriend running around. The brunet liked to act tough as nails, but he could be easily broken. He was an old nation, however, so he was not one to be underestimated. Pride came before the fall and all that.

And that flash of silvery-white had been unmistakable. Alfred could have a great deal of fun with him.

France walked over to the bed and moved aside some of the papers. "Lovi and Gil are here." He sat on the corner, trying for a smile.

His jeans were rolled up, and he was no longer wearing socks. His fingers were red, same as his cheeks and nose. He'd run outside without a coat or even shoes. There was a twig in his shoulder length hair, and his eyes were still shiny from adrenaline.

Prussia must have found Canada.

"Is Gil still hitting on Mattie?" America scrunched up his face in puzzlement. "And what's Vino doing here?"

It did not take a genius to deduce the Canadian and Italian were dating, but, then, America knew Canada's passcode on his cellphone. Prussia must have figured it out by now as well, and he was not one to try breaking up a couple.

So did Romano just want muscle?

Was Prussia maybe here for America?

How sweet.

France paled at the mention of Canada, and America swallowed and looked away, dropping the paper.

"Is he okay?" the younger nation inquired in a small voice. "He's not too cold right?" He looked back at France with damp eyes. "He's just sick. He shouldn't be out there!"

There was a shout of German from the den Alfred recognized as "Shut up!"

America's hands were on the footboard, pain jabbing at his lower abdomen and flaring out at his back. He grimaced as he straightened, shaking his head when France stepped forward to help him off the bed. Inhaling sharply, he stood and ignored the papers that fell to the floor.

Alfred pushed his glasses up into place. "Please, just let me talk to him." His bottom lip quivered as Francis looked down with a furrowed brow, one hand grasping his other arm. "He's my _brother_. I know I can—"

Suddenly, Francis was right in front of Alfred, hands grasping his arms, just below his shoulders. "Get hurt again?!" he demanded, eyes shining. He looked down, gritting his teeth, and England was saying something out in the den, the walls muffling his voice. "You haven't even told us how—_why_…" He hung his head, arms slipping down to just above America's elbows. "I'm your brother too, _Amérique_, and I'm just—"

Pulling away, Alfred walked around so he was closer to the door. Arthur was telling Lovino to sit down and listen. (That should work for all of two seconds.)

"Yeah, brother who has to fight with me on every fucking idea I have and make me look like a goddamned idiot—"

"I _fought_ _for_ you," Francis exploded, turning around in military fashion. His face remained calm, but his bright eyes burned (though Alfred didn't miss the fact they still glistened with tears unshed). "Went through _hell_ because of you. Your rebellion—"

"And that's all it ever fucking was, huh? Little kid not wanting to listen to Daddy." Alfred shouted back, trying to listen to what was going on outside. "You wouldn't even come until after Saratoga. You didn't want to back me until you knew I could actually pull it off!"

"I sent you money right under England's nose." France stomped over to America, looking pissed when he had to incline his head slightly to meet his eyes. "Do you know how much I had to beg my king to send you that money? I _begged_. I knew you would not me mine to possess. I knew you wanted to be on your own, and I wanted to see it through. I didn't just want to hit England through you. I wanted you to _win_. I _always_ believed in you."

Alfred's face fell, though he wanted to laugh upon hearing Gilbert yell that something had to have happened to make Matthew snap and keeping him out in the cold wouldn't do any good.

Everything moving along so gracefully.

Even France was moving just as planned and didn't realize it was predetermination.

Wasn't predestination a Calvinist belief?

That tiny tidbit just made this sweeter.

"Then believe me now," America whispered. "Bring him inside for the rest of the night? We can take turns watching the door if it makes you feel better. Just… Please. Mattie's sick, and he can't get better out there."

Romano was saying something in rapid Italian, muffled through the wall. He wasn't screaming. It sounded more like a mixture of disbelief and contemplation.

Exhaling heavily, Francis gave a nod. "I'll talk to the others. You get some sleep. It is late."

Mouth twitching in an awkward smile, Alfred walked around to the bed, picking up the papers. "Okay. _Bonne nuit_."

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred saw France beam. "_Bonne nuit, Amérique_."

He left the room, and Alfred set the papers and folders onto the nightstand in their designated piles. He then went to the window, where, at the right angle, he could see a corner of the shed's roof through the spaces between the trees. It was much harder at night, but that small corner was darker than the surrounding shadow.

Matthew was there, and he had to know two more people with here with all the commotion.

He had been given new motivation to act.

All Alfred needed to do now was wait.

**X X X**

England wasn't sure which part was worse: The fact that Romano and Prussia were here, or the fact that Romano was dating _Canada_.

And there was the fact that England and Prussia had never truly gotten along.

They didn't hate one-another, but they had never been friends—not close, anyway.

Then again, England had always been more of a lone wolf. Ambition was needed to become an empire of his size and strength, and ambition was a trait that often left a bad taste in people's mouths. It was usually (and unfortunately) seen as akin to selfishness, greediness, and ruthlessness. It was a word that described people others labelled as sociopaths—possibly charming but nonetheless a person no one should have the disservice to meet.

As twisted as it was, only Francis kept coming back to his side, as an individual if unable to do so as a nation.

Maybe the man was a masochist. He definitely seemed to be one of those into that sort of thing.

"There's no way he'd do any of that!" Romano repeated.

He stayed seated, and though he scowled, his hazel-green eyes showed doubt.

They all knew what they could do.

As nations, they encompassed their lands' and people's histories, cultures, and nature.

They were like gods in that way, and gods could be cruel sons of bitches.

And all because their people could do things that made even demons shutter.

France entered the room, hand brushing England's before going to sit in the easy chair. America's bomber jacket was still draped over the back, and England noticed that Prussia's eyes kept going to it. He was more calculating than most gave him credit for, and he was as Type A as his brother.

"America is asleep," Francis reported in a low voice, looking like he should be the one in a bed.

This house only had three bedrooms, but one had been turned into a study. The guest room had been the one Canada was supposed to sleep in, so neither England nor France had been willing to stay there. At least the couch was a pull-out, so they had been sharing it. Though it wasn't like either had been getting much sleep anyway.

"You keep dodging the question," said Gilbert, still looking at the jacket. "Just exactly what did you see Canada do?"

He sounded skeptical.

He and Francis had come from the direction of the shed, which meant Gilbert had likely spoken with Matthew.

Arthur had no idea what Matthew had said, but he was sure it had been lies.

"_He said '_Ne l'écoutez pas'_," Francis murmured, sinking into the easy chair, ruined shirt gone and a large bandage covering the hole in his abdomen. He acted as though he could not feel it, eyes distant and hair hanging around his face like limp snakes. "He said I do not understand."_

"_He's gone mad," Arthur growled, still scrubbing his hands with a damp cloth, even though there was no more blood to clean. _

_He still _felt_ blood, though._

"_And what was that 'I promise' he said to America?" England continued._

_France didn't answer. He didn't look to have heard, and England got up from the couch and headed to the kitchen._

"_I'll make us something to eat," he said, expecting—hoping for—a disgusted reaction but only receiving a nod and muttered thanks._

France and England had tried asking America some of these questions, but they'd gotten no straight answers. The boy looked pained, heart-broken, and betrayed.

Yet there was something behind those sky blue eyes England could not name.

He wanted to know what this promise was.

"You're seriously just letting these _idioti_ leave him out in the cold?!" Romano exploded.

He sprang to his feet, France trying to push him back to couch only to be pushed back. The blond man stumbled a few steps as Prussia got to his feet. He grabbed the Italian's arm a moment too late, and England didn't sidestep fast enough to avoid Romano's knuckles skating over his cheek and crashing into the side of his nose.

Blood dripped through the gaps between England's fingers as he shifted his nose back into place, swearing heavily in every language he knew.

"_S'il-vous-plaît, calmez-vous_," France ordered as Prussia sat Romano down, whispering something in accented Italian. "I think we'll bring him in tonight—"

"_What—_?!"

France cut England off with a look as the Brit got tissues from one of the shelves in the entertainment center. He held them beneath his nose to soak up the blood, mouth twitching at the look from Romano—the brunet would hit him again (and harder) in a heartbeat. Both Italians were usually scared of him, but Feliciano once backed Arthur into a corner, the fury in those golden eyes terrifying in one usually so kind and timid.

With Lovino, he glared and acted angry as a front, but Arthur could tell this was no mask. He really liked Matthew—maybe loved him—and would do anything to see him safe and cared after. The fire in those eyes was a frigid beast even Russia's winters could not hope to match.

"There are four of us," said France, looking around to the three of them. "He will still wear the cuffs, and we can take turns watching the door. It is late, and Gilbert, Lovino, I am sure the two of you had had a long flight. We will explain everything in the morning, and the two of you can speak with both Alfred and Mathieu. _Est-ce juste_?"

Romano rolled his lips inward but then gave a reluctant nod. "_Sì_."

Prussia nodded as well. "_Ja_."

Bringing the tissue down away from his nose, which had stopped bleeding, England sighed. "Alright. Prussia and I will go. France, you and Romano can prepare the room upstairs."

There was a rubbish bin next to the entertainment center, and Arthur tossed the tissues into it and got a torch from one of the cabinets.

He and Prussia were silent as they slipped on their coats and boots, the other two heading up the L-shaped staircase. The air was biting outside, the darkness all-consuming. The torch's light seemed to eat through it as they walked. It didn't even feel like reality as the grass turned to crunching leaves.

It was like one of America's video games. _Silent Hill_ maybe. Or that damned _Slender: The Eight Pages_ one the git made England play with him just to watch him jump.

Arthur's breath was like fog trying to block the way. Next to him, Gilbert was barely breathing.

"Stop."

Arthur nearly jumped right out of his skin at the sudden whisper as Gilbert's arm shot out in front of his chest.

"Wha—?"

Then he heard it. Arthur sent the beam of light towards the cluster of trees to his right, seeing only shadows and a bird taking off.

"Look—!"

Blackness swallowed the rest of Prussia's warning.

_**I'm not a FrUS fan for the same reasons I don't like USUK, but I love giving them a brotherly/guardian-and-child dynamic. That scene between France and America was one I'd been picturing for a while but had no idea when I could use it. The bunnehs said now was a good time. :) And while I love and use the idea of Mother Native America, I also like the idea of multiple Native American personifications. More will be seen about them in the future.**_

_**Also, I watched Silence of the Lambs for the first time with some friends from a club I'm in at school, so prepare for future scenes inspired by that movie!**_

_**French**_  
><em><strong>Bonne nuit - "Good night"<br>Ne l'écoutez pas - "Do not listen to him" (formal 'you' verb form for "écouter")**_  
><em><strong>S'il-vous-plaît, calmez-vous - "Please, calm down" (I have France using the formal 'you' with Lovi, seeing as while he'd be informal with Feli, I see him as being more formal with Lovi, especially at a time like this where he feels really stressed.)<br>Est-ce juste? - "Is that fair?"**_

_**Italian  
>idioti - "idiots"<br>Sì - "yes"  
><strong>_

_**German  
>Ja - "yes"<strong>_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX**

"The game is on," the beast whispered.

He wore a hat that hid his hair, and it was too dark to be sure about the color of his eyes.

But Gilbert was sure that this was America.

"Never thought I'd hear you quote one of England's works," Gilbert spat, looking down at the Brit's unmoving body.

The swing was timed for it, the bat glancing off Gilbert's coat sleeve as he managed to dance out of the way. He could be thankful for Alfred not having added nails to the end of the wood.

However, he wondered why he was using a bat in the first place. He also didn't seem to be trying all that hard to harm them.

Arthur was down, but he wasn't bleeding. His skull looked intact.

Lord knew Alfred was more than strong enough to crush the Brit's skull with one swing if he was inclined to do so.

What kind of angle was he working?

It was hard to see. The darkness was like a living entity, the flashlight still burning a beam towards a line of trees. It was glaring, and Gilbert's eyes felt strained as he kept dodging and dancing with his sadistic waltz partner.

He hadn't wanted to believe Matthew could have done what Arthur would only hint towards—something so horrid, it was like a curse to speak aloud.

Yet, Matthew wasn't the monster meant believing _Alfred_ was.

Gilbert liked that even less.

Or both accounts held truth and the twins were both demons.

Gilbert hated that option most of all.

Diving, he rolled over his shoulder and back, having used his right arm to steer. Pain pinged through his elbow, but he barely noticed as adrenaline flooded his system. The bat came at him sideways, Prussia feeling the air _whoosh_ over his head as he bent his knees to drop down. Gloved hands pressing against the ground to keep him steady, Gilbert aimed for Alfred's knee with a side kick, only getting air as the younger nation twisted out of the way.

His hand grasped the bat where it started to widen, the other pressed against the pommel. He thrust it forward as if working with a foil, and Prussia rolled back over his left shoulder out of the way, back hitting a tree. Leaves rustled above, the disturbance causing a fiery colony to drift to the ground.

America used his momentum to hit the ground with the top of his bat and spin, the motion fluid as the wood was brought back up, ready to swing.

The wire-framed glasses slipped halfway down the man's nose, and he grinned ear-to-ear.

Prussia's stomach was in knots.

He dodged at the last second, the sound of the bat hitting the tree like thunder clapping. Bark flew, and the bat was shattered. Turning, America pushed his glasses up, still wearing that Cheshire Cat smile.

It was Gilbert's turn to be on the offensive. He threw a fist Alfred's way, but the blonde twirled out of the way and caught his wrist, shoving it downwards.

Gilbert twisted his body to roll and land on a knee, other leg propped up to get him back upright.

His heart felt as though it were trying to punch its way out of his chest, and the beam of light lit up his jeans and boots. England's body was still where it had fallen, but America was nowhere to be seen.

Springing to his feet and twisting around, Prussia tried to find any sign of America, but it was too dark. He stopped and held his breath, throat dry and burning and lungs screaming. He did his best to ignore all that as he listened.

The wind growled and whistled. The leaves rustled like maracas.

Prussia turned back towards the tree. There was a patch where the bark had been cleared off from heavy impact, a dent and field of splinters in the wood beneath. The ground was covered in wood, including a shaft with a round pommel at the end. One chunk of wood had part of a brand name burned into it.

The fight had definitely happened, but the attacker had vanished so completely and without trace, Prussia started to sincerely wonder if America wasn't as against magic as he acted towards England.

England.

Scheiße_!_ he thought, rushing to the blonde's side. He looked to be fine, but when Gilbert took off his glove to feel his neck, cheek, and forehead, the Brit was cold. He needed to get inside.

Canada could wait a few more minutes. He hoped.

It _had_ been America that attacked, right?

Canada couldn't have escaped, and even if he had, he was equipped with chains around his wrists and ankles. America, on the other hand, had been alone. This was his house. He could have easily gotten out and back in without anyone noticing.

Swearing internally, Gilbert grunted and heaved Arthur over his shoulders. The man often looked wiry in his choice of dress, but he had muscle mass, alright. His weight proved it.

When Prussia was a couple feet from the front door, England slurred, "Put… me down… you cunt…."

"Almost there, _kackfass_," Gilbert muttered under his breath. Sweat broke out at his hairline and down the back of his neck, making him feel even colder. The ski cap and fleece scarf weren't helping much.

"I'm fine," moaned England.

Stopping for a breath and to listen, Prussia retorted, "The fact you sound like you just downed a bottle of Asbach Uralt says different."

"I have a plan, now pretend you heard something and drop me."

"You're crazy as ever." Prussia spoke through his teeth, but his mind was whirling.

"Crazy… to fight… the crazy." England coughed a dry, humorless laugh. "We don't… have much time to do this. I…" He swallowed. "I have an inkling, but… I still don't know his endgame or if he"—deep breath—"even has one. Now drop me"—another deep breath, followed by a cough—"and go. Tell them… Canada's escaped."

Canada?

He thought it was—No, that wasn't it.

Maybe. There was something in his voice.

Gilbert was still sure the attacker had been Alfred, but he'd follow Arthur's directions. He hadn't been an empire by being an idiot.

He sounded like he would be fine in a few moments. Prussia swallowed, finding his mouth had gone dry. His eyes narrowed as they shot towards the direction of the shed, and he dropped England and ran inside, nearly knocking the door off of its hinges as he raced up the stairs.

**X X X**

None of the nations were strangers to evil acts, Romano knew.

And modern society was anything but polite.

With how widely-publicized so many happenings in America's home got broadcast, it became so easy for the rest of them to say, "Hey, our people aren't like _that_."

Racism, sexism, all messes of phobias.

No, none of them were strangers. Even today, Romano's and Venziano's government and people were prejudiced and discriminatory towards the Romani. Children or adolescents taken and having their hair sheared off was a mild example. There were also beatings from police; they were denied housing; and they were ripped from their homes and segregated. They were called Gypsies, a horrible slur that spanned back centuries, and they would often be referred to as like animals or beasts.

Italian women tended to be overworked and had some of the lowest self-esteem in the West. Few women were in power, the overbearing and unwritten laws of gender roles etched deeply into the culture.

This was all in the modern-day. The past was filled with things Lovino did not want to spend even a moment thinking on.

And Antonio… The tomato bastard had always tried his damndest to keep it hidden, but Lovino had seen parts of him that would have made the devil squirm.

Hell sprouted across the globe once in a while, but it was subtle. The people that saw the hell for what it was and banned together to fight were then labeled as demons by those siding with demons (whether knowing it or not).

America was such a young nation, but they all knew much of what had gone on—many of their students had probably learned more about America's history than even America's own students.

Sometimes when the blonde would talk about the past, it sounded much different than how the others remembered. Romano had heard of the "whitewashing" his schools often did, but he had first thought it was the man's optimistic personality giving him rose-colored glasses.

Now, with what he'd heard, he wondered.

He refused to believe Canada was behind such a nightmarish scene. His poor heart would not allow it.

It was America. Had to be.

Romano had dealt with him before when many of his people moved to the US and Canada after the unification. America had shown sides others probably had never had the displeasure to encounter. It had been terrifying. Romano actually respected America in many ways. He was so young but had risen to the status of a superpower.

But that was just it: America was a superpower, and one did not rise to that status without bathing in blood.

Kumajiro snuggled up to Romano's chest as he sat against the wall of the balcony that looked over the den. He and France had set up the room, cleaning it out of anything that could be used as a weapon—anything obvious, at least. They all knew that those with an ounce of creativity and motivation could turn _anything_ into a weapon, and Matthew was also very strong. According to Francis, Arthur had needed to change the zip-ties that bound his wrists and ankles three times.

Metal handcuffs would not do much better. Romano had shown him how to pick locks; Canada was almost as fast about it as he was now.

In hindsight, that probably hadn't been the best skill to pass on.

"Pasta," the bear squeaked in a yawn.

The door across the balcony from the guest bedroom shut, and France said, "Locked up tight from the inside."

Romano didn't bother asking how America was supposed to get back in when this was all over. He didn't care, and the idiot could just knock it down and buy a new door. He'd have to do that for the door leading to his basement, anyway.

Kumajiro blinked and looked up at the brunet. "Food?"

It was a joke that Lovino was always spoiling the polar bear. The animal didn't even know his name; he only knew him as the guy that gave him food.

"In a moment," Romano promised, standing up just as the front door slammed open, making the objects on the table in the foyer all topple over.

"Canada's escaped!" Prussia gasped, ruby eyes wild and with an almost violet-blue tint around his pupils.

Romano clutched Kumajiro closer to his chest to keep from dropping him as France demanded, "_Oú-est Angleterre_?!"

"He went after him," the silver-haired man reported.

He was holding something back; Lovino could tell. His amber-green eyes narrowed, the glint in Gilbert's eye when he caught his gaze saying he realized Lovino knew there was more. Yet, he didn't offer what "more" there was.

Odd.

It did not take a genius to see the way Gilbert would look at Alfred when they were in the same room. How the blonde had managed to seem so oblivious was a mystery.

Or was he oblivious? Could Gilbert be working with him? How did they know Alfred had stayed in his room? Did Matthew really escape, or was there more going on?

"You left him out there _alone_?!" France exploded, sprinting down the stairs and shoving Prussia aside as he head out the door, not feeling the cold.

Setting Kumajiro down, Lovino whispered, "Go into the room and stay there for now, _d'accordo_?"

The bear nodded and waddled into the bedroom as Romano head down the stairs.

"You sure are taking your sweet-ass time," grumbled Prussia, every muscle tense. His near-translucent skin showed his veins and arteries, like a living map. "Didn't you hear? Or do you not give a—"

He doubled over from the unexpected punch to his abdomen, and Romano scowled as he shook his hand. Damn, the bastard's muscles were hard.

"That's for lying," Romano growled, eyes like steel.

He may have never done work for the Mafia as some liked to joke, but he'd had to deal with them before, usually the _picciotti_ and some of the _soldati_, but he'd dealt with a _capodecina_ before as well. He knew how to instill fear and get people to talk when need be. Both brothers did, but Lovino was better at it. Feliciano was usually better at gathering information—that kind of work required people skills.

When Prussia started to rise, jaw set and eyes flaring with anger, Romano grasped a fistful of his fine, silvery hair. It was soft to the touch and would rip out easily. Prussia didn't necessarily look it, but he was pretty tender-headed, which was why he didn't like to bother with any products, content to just let his hair do whatever it wished.

"What happened?" Lovino demanded in a low, even voice. Gilbert's eyes widened at the inflection, unused to seeing this side to the southern Italian. "The truth. If Canada's really escaped, you wouldn't have wasted this much time to worry about me. You would have just ran back outside soon as delivering the message."

Prussia could easily grab Romano's wrist and twist him around. The fact he wasn't told the shorter nation that whatever had happened had the ruby-eyed man greatly flustered.

Lovino's heart thundered within his chest, echoing in his ears and almost blocking Gilbert's words.

"England said he had a plan," he said quickly and in a low voice as if worried about eavesdroppers. "Not enough time to say it. I think it was America who attacked. England said to say it was Canada. Don't know why."

Pieces clicked into place, and Lovino let go. He was still suspicious, but he felt confident enough to run with his own little plan.

As Gilbert straightened, the brunet said in an equally-low voice, "Go out after England and France. I'll check the basement."

"The base—?"

"_Go_ you albino bastard!" Romano bellowed, turning towards the den as Prussia scowled as he headed outside.

Romano took the carpeted stairs two at a time, heart racing as it leapt into the base of his throat.

_This better fucking work_, he thought, looking at the bookcase, and then the near-invisible, closed doorway next to it. _I might wish I could die otherwise._

**_I hate finals. I hate finals. IhatefinalsIhatefinalsIhatefinals. It's like a whole week of watching your hopes and dreams flutter away out the window. ... So I wrote more of this to take a break from studying for my two psychology classes. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed the chapter! I hope to get the next chapter up soon! :)_**

**_German  
>Scheiße! - "Shit!"<br>_kackfass - "platter of shit"_  
><em>**

**__French  
><em>Oú-est Angleterre?! - "Where is England?!"<em>  
><em>_**

___**Italian**  
><strong><em>d'accordo? - "Okay?"<br>__picciotti_ - low-rung people in the mafia hierarchy, often younger and do the smaller jobs like beatings and robberies**  
><strong><em>soldati - soldiers in the mafia<br>__capodecina_ - "head of ten"; head of a branch in the mafia family**  
><em>__


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X**

There was a pond somewhere around here, England was sure. If the twit could not find a naturally-forming body of water on or near the land he wanted to have his house, he built a natural-looking fountain or pool. A couple times, he had needed to call over Germany for help for such things, Prussia tagging along one of those times.

England wasn't spying. The git just posted just about everything about his life on Facebook and Twitter.

He always had been enamored with electronics.

England's heart skipped a beat thinking on that, so he pushed the feelings back.

The trail was narrow. Branches attacked his face and arms, and roots rolled underneath his feet, trying to slow him down. Foliage was growing inward, nature trying to reclaim what blades and fire took away. It was hard as hell trying to follow the path in the darkness of the Witching Hour, seeming like it wouldn't be much easier even under the noon sun.

Readjusting his hat, Arthur finally arrived where the trees thinned, more pine needles than leaves littering the damp ground. He heard water lapping at soil as the wind picked up, the air feeling drier and smelling of a building storm.

The strong scent of pine and decomposing leaves billowed up around Arthur as he stepped forward, eyes finding a tall figure standing next to what looked like overturned earth—about the length of the average human adult here.

Tendrils of tremoring cold slithered downwards from Arthur's crown, licking at his skull and hissing on the way down his spine. His hands and feet felt numb, the older nation wondering how many other similar plots marked the land and how long such real-estate had been seeing transactions.

"Predictable," England growled, stepping away from the shadow of the trees and stopping about two meters away, needing to judge how to go about the confrontation. "You used to stare out at the water for hours on end." _Even in the middle of winter. I'd have to drag your arse back to the house and make you tea to warm up._

Despite his assertions, England knew America still enjoyed tea as much as he had as a lad. The hippie movement and smaller movements of the romanticism of hippie culture, plus the more current hipster subculture would have made him acquire such tastes even if he didn't.

A nation's preference was fickle like that. Subcultures were just as influential on their personalities and mindsets as majority culture, if not more so in some instances.

France would never allow England to forget his punk phase.

"It looks like a black hole formed in the middle of the Earth, doesn't it?" asked America in the Southern accent this region gave him.

Water and space. The boy loved forces of mystery. He was entranced by the dark depths man held no knowledge of, dark depths that inspired fear and madness.

Based on recent happenings, this seemed to make much more sense than Arthur liked.

They all held darkness, a form of insanity man could not know—only nations.

It was a madness therapists or medication could not provide aid for. It was the madness of history, culture, and prevailing beliefs and demands condensing into a single person.

They did not even have gods. They had humans. Fickle beasts that thought in mobs.

Madness was expected, inescapable.

They learned. They coped.

Veneers slipped. Friendships shifted, changed, sometimes morphing to bitter hatred that forced them to wonder endlessly whether their wants and desires came from their own minds or the collectives of their people, the demands of their bosses.

Inescapable.

This was why the nations demanded history to be remembered. With them, reliving the past was more than some wise warning. It was a harsh, alarming truth.

America sometimes seemed to remember things differently from the others, especially in more recent years.

England had been confused about it at first. Most, if not all, of their schools watered down things they did, the bias supposedly inspired by feelings of patriotism.

For America, England found out, this was much stronger, some textbooks ignoring or outright lying about events in his history. He hadn't thought this would affect the younger nation's mind and memories too much, but it was obvious now that it had, at least in part, taken its toll.

"Why?" The question escaped England's lips before he could stop it.

His mind spun with confusion. There were holes throughout the puzzle, and it was too dark to see whether the pieces even belonged to it.

There was no question what he had seen in the basement. There was no question the torture this boy in front of him had gone through. Yet, there also was no question he had hit him over the head with a bat, then turning to attack Prussia.

Right?

While England had been doing very well in telling the North American twins apart since WWI—he'd only had a handful of mix-ups since then—the dark and pounding headache from aforementioned bat made telling them apart tougher. The hat concealing the younger nation's hair also called for question.

It was also too dark to see whether he had freckles, which Alfred did but Matthew did not. Their voices were very different, but the two had switched places at meetings before and were good at copying one-another's vocal tones, tics, and accents. England remembered once hearing Canada tease his brother while using one of the Southern accents.

But America would be the one to go straight to a body of water.

It was obvious, predictable as England had said.

Too obvious. Too predictable.

_Stop_, Arthur ordered. _It's America. I can tell. I can just tell_.

"'Why'?" A chuckle. "You choosin' to believe my actions are tied by logic?"

A more formal structure than usual. The end of his question felt snipped, as though about to be followed by "huh" or "eh".

The surety in England's heart grew grey and muddied.

"You need to come back with me," said England in a low voice.

America (right? _right_) took a step forward, head cocking to the side. "You could not have honestly believed this would be so easy."

He made no mention of being locked away.

No swearing or sign of rage. Simply cold calculation.

No rhyme, no reason. Chaos for chaos's sake. Even the golden apple's creation had spun from the reason of spite.

This?

None. None that Arthur could see, anyway.

This would have been easier if Arthur had been able to tell Gilbert the whole of his half-thought out plan. He should have at least mentioned his suspicions to Francis, but he had thought them to be built on paranoia or something of the sort. He could not imagine—had not wanted to imagine—the gung-ho, hero-obsessed boy could… He did not even know what.

Arthur could not deny that it had been Matthew doing that horrid act, even if he was unsure of which twin now stood before him.

But what had brought him to that act? Neither had offered up any information, and there had been times it seemed as though America had intentionally changed the subject. Arthur and Francis had both thought it to be due to painful memories, but now he wondered.

He wished there had been time to discuss this more with the others. It would have made things much easier.

Then, the seemingly random attack made sense. The four had been split up in their suspicions. There had been enough time between Francis leaving Alfred alone and Arthur and Gilbert heading out the front door to have Alfred sneak out his window and stash his brother somewhere.

It made sense, these pieces of the mental puzzle fading into place, but the most important ones were still missing.

Alfred took another step forward. "Gears still turnin'?" He was close enough now that Arthur could see his smile. "Must be tough, wondering 'bout 'why' when you don't even know a quarter-a 'what'."

The accent was deepening, sounding purposeful, faked.

He was right, though. Arthur _didn't_ know even a quarter of what had happened.

His eyes flickered back to the overturned earth.

"Would ya like to join 'im?" Alfred's grin was all teeth.

"Care to say just who he was first?" Arthur half wanted to stall; the other half was the burning need for answers to keep his head from spinning and making his headache worse.

"Lawyer. Assistant District Attorney if you want his title." His head cocked to the side again, hands still in the pockets of his coat. "Probably started out wanting to whip out justice. That's how just about all of 'em start out. The rest want money or glory but don't wanna breathe in that LA smog."

"Why kill someone in your justice system?" _Especially one pretty high-up, for that matter._

"Again with the 'why'." Alfred gave a half-shrug. "Maybe I was just bored."

"Just bored" might explain killing a homeless man or maybe five (that were known, anyway) prostitutes—Arthur shivered at the memory he preferred to stay deep within the shadows of the unknown.

Alfred took two steps forward. "But no more talk. I want to play a game."

"Games have rules and are on equal ground," Arthur countered, heart pounding in sync with his head. Its echo nearly blotted out his thoughts.

"Who said you were a player?"

He saw Arthur as a mere _piece_, was what he was saying. The Brit's blood leapt into a boil, making him charge before he could bother to think rationally.

Barking a laugh, America spun out of the way, hands out of his pockets, with one brandishing a butterfly knife.

_Shit!_ England slipped, left foot going back to where his leg ended up straight, right bent beneath him. His hands went down to keep his body steady, and he rolled away as America came at him with the knife, slipping exactly where he had been.

His upper back took the brunt of the force, and he hopped up into a fighting stance, focused on getting that knife away from his assailant.

Shouts from the house distracted England for a moment, but he got out away as the knife slashed forward, splitting skin along his cheek.

America rolled forward from his momentum, nearly hitting a pine tree. He sidestepped England's left hook, sticking out his tongue as he did so. England's knuckles hit bark, the leather of his gloves protecting his skin.

He swung back by pivoting on his right foot as America tried to stab him in the gut, and England grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him around. The boy's momentum made it easy, the motion fluid as England forced him onto his belly, arm out and straight, locked from pressure to his shoulder.

There were more shouts at the house, followed by a rain of gunshots and the roll of thunder from the northwest.

A glint of light through inky clouds covering the thin crescent moon.

A swear as the knife fell, England on the ground before he could blink and America shoving his shoulder back into its socket.

"Goddamn," he muttered, accent slipped.

The surety muddied even more; England reached for the knife, getting his hand stomped on.

"I wonder if you taste different from the others," America murmured, accent back.

_Canada…?_ England thought, the question moving slowly through his mind as if everything now needed to be rearranged. _Wait, _taste_?!_

Francis had told Arthur his suspicion when they saw the pan and plate, and then noticed that one of Alfred's kidneys was missing.

Yet… to hear it now, in such a blasé manner…

England maneuvered himself, hand screaming. He then kicked Canada hard in the shin, forcing him back and off of his hand. The older nation then quickly grabbed the knife and got to his feet, adrenaline pulling him like marionette strings.

Canada dodged, laughing.

It was too dark to see, but England imagined a wild gleam in his eyes.

"You won't drop to your knees this time?"

Again, the question sounded snipped at the end. England was slowly reining in his anger just enough to channel it rather than letting it explode everywhere.

He needed to get Canada back to the house. He'd already known it would not be by choice, but he had hoped. Now, it was obvious force was needed.

Dodging another lunge, Canada stumbled due to the mud, falling into a shrub at the base of a tree. He jumped back up with a shovel, England having no time to wonder where it had come from before side-stepping out of the way with a turn to stab the younger nation in the neck.

The shovel spun like a rifle, the metal blade singing soprano as it gleamed off of the butterfly knife's edge and forced it out of England's hand.

He ducked when the shovel's blade came around again, the feel and sound of air being sliced through ringing through his ears.

Light cut through the sky and hit the earth in jagged, bony limbs, thunder bellowing at the disturbance when England grabbed hold of the wood just above the metal of the shovel, Canada's face now close enough for England to make out the insanity in his expression, even if he could only make out black and grey for the colors.

"Level-enough field for ya?" Canada asked in a low, gravelly voice, barely audible over the next wave of thunder, so loud it was felt more than heard.

England wrenched the shovel away as Canada let go, the force causing the Brit to fall back. He saw lightning above and heard leaves crunch and shots go off, right before thunder crashed and heaven opened.

Freezing rain fell in sheets, speckled with bits of hard ice that felt like bullets being rained down by vengeful angels.

Tossing away the shovel, Arthur gritted his teeth and slipped twice getting up, mud all over his coat, jeans, and boots. His hat had fallen off, suctioned into the slop of darkness below him, but he ignored it as he ran. Nature's unholy symphony covered up the sound of Matthew's escape, and the visibility was even worse not, Arthur having no clue if he was on the trail or where it even was.

He ducked just in time to dodge a branch he didn't remember from before; this was not the trail.

He turned to where he believed the house was. Matthew was likely going elsewhere, but Arthur needed to find the house, get a point of reference. He could get one of the others help him—

_The gunshots_, he remembered.

Exactly what had happened?

If he had been fighting Canada… America? Canada.

Were the two working together?

But…

"_Who said you were a player?"_

Canada and America were the players. The rest of them were the chess pieces.

England ran faster, tripping over a branch and nearly colliding head-first into an oak tree. His hands hit the trunk and pushed him back; England stumbled and kept running, a spider web with a collection of raindrops catching in his hair as he slid over a patch of soil softer than the surrounding area. He righted himself before he fell back, clutching a loop of thick vine to keep him upright. He then leapt into a sprint once more, batting away branches with his hands as the roar of his pounding heart became indistinguishable from the thunder above.

Three more slips and turns where he thought where he'd heard a shout, England doubled over, soaked to the bone and hair plastered to his head like a golden helmet. His coat made the rain's cold worse, so he untied the belt and undid the buttons before throwing it down, immediately feeling as though he'd given up his shield.

The hail felt bigger now, harder. He pushed his back against the trunk of the nearest tree, the branches lessening the amount of icy bullets struck his body. Danger of lightning be damned.

Each direction looked no different from the other.

_Austria would have an easier time finding his way out of here_, thought England, the surge of adrenaline from earlier feeling as though it were now being sucked from his body.

Rain fell even harder, as though God had tossed his promise to never flood the Earth again. Lightning smacked the earth, white, gold, blue, and purple fingers reaching from the dark clouds like divine wrath.

Gasping for breath that felt more like liquid than air hitting the walls of his lungs, England chose a direction and ran.

White-blue lit up the area, and England's eyes widened as he slid, falling to the muddy ground as his heart stopped in his throat.

He was at the pond. He had done nothing but run in a circle, limbs heavy and hope leaking with the rain into the soil.

_**I hope the change from calling him 'America' to calling him 'Canada' wasn't too confusing, but it's supposed to be at least a little confusing. Anyway, finals are over (*parties*), and I'm home for the holidays. That should give me more time to work on this. :) Also, being home means cable, which means Investigation Discovery, learning about murders and other bloody crimes, which should help give plenty of inspiration. *mini-dance* Hope y'all liked this chapter, and that the rest won't fail to disappoint. :)**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI**

The shed was empty.

In the corner next to the table below the window was an open trap door. It was darker than the surrounding shadows, sucking in France's hope the way a black hole sucked in light.

How had England and France missed this before?

How had Canada only just now found it?

What could have changed?!

France's numb hands fell from the bars as his pupils dilated, swallowing much the surrounding blue.

Prussia and Romano.

Prussia had spoken with Canada while Romano distracted England and France.

France's ankle still felt a twinge of pain from that tackle he hadn't realized the brunet had the guts to do.

What had Prussia said to Canada? Were they somehow in this together?

Heart hammering within his chest, Francis took a step back, body completely numb from cold and fear. He had known nothing about Matthew's supposed boyfriend, when, even after Arthur had taken the boy from him, Francis had been the one Matthew wrote to when he first started having these "odd flutters." It had been so sweet; he had been the reason Francis started his radio show years later, hoping to help others find love.

Yet, now Matthew and Lovino have apparently been dating for several years, and Francis only just now heard about it when everything went to hell? Not to mention he had not seemed to be too worried upon hearing that his lover had escaped and had attacked Gilbert and Arthur.

And Prussia…

Why would Romano have called him over Spain? Or Belgium? Out of everyone other than Italy Veneziano, those were the two only people France could think of that the southern Italian personification was on any terms with that could be considered friendly.

Gilbert was a better choice than Ludwig from Lovino's eyes, Francis was sure, and out of the two, he would have chosen the elder brother as well—and not just because of how far their histories went.

Ludwig was logical to a fault; he would have simply told Lovino he was overreacting and somehow manage to get him to believe it, even if only for a while. Gilbert, however, was led more by his gut, centuries of experience showing him that instinct was one of the best weapon in one's arsenal.

Unfortunately, it could also be the worst, leading the fighter one way when the truth lay in the other.

That was probably why Prussia and his brother made such a good team—when they listened to one-another.

Right now, France's instinct said there was something just not right about the timing in all of this. Evidence: the arrival of Prussia and Romano, claiming to believe something wrong due to the text England had sent from Canada's cellphone.

_I knew I should have sent it_, thought France as his frown deepened, ears opening up to where every little sound was amplified.

Then, the distraction while Prussia spoke with Canada.

Prussia and America were close. France remembered the glimmer in those ruby eyes as they watched the boy learning how to march and hold a musket. Prussia had been hard on the boy, harder than France had been, but it had been the harshness of a teacher that saw the potential of a student and deemed it much higher than the effort the student showed. He had also been close to America during his civil war.

While not proud of it, France and England had showed sympathy towards the Confederacy during that time.

"_He wants freedom," Francis said with a wave of his hand, still getting used to the new nation he'd seen with Alfred's face but slicked-back brunet hair and turquoise eyes. "Now, doesn't that sound familiar?"_

_Alfred's eyes, no longer behind his recently-acquired spectacles, which Confederacy now possessed, darkened to the shade of storm clouds rolling in._

"_That's all you have to say?" he sneered, voice low, like the rumbling of thunder testing its system. "Freedom for _who_?!"_

"_Do not pretend you care about the slaves," said England from across the room._

_His accent was changing again, though it wavered from time to time. Normandy intentionally mispronouncing England's words in the 1000s had really influenced him, though he refused to admit Normandy's occupation had been the reason for his shifting speech patterns._

_Alfred whirled around, navy blue cap almost falling off his head. He opened his mouth, but England cut him off:_

"_Much of you was built on their bodies and blood already." He took a sip of tea. "Your boss has said already he would keep the slaves if it meant keeping you in one piece."_

_The young, weakened nation looked ready to see if it were possible to murder another nation. Every muscle in his body was tensed, and France found himself getting ready to leap out of his chair if it came to that. Alfred had come to request help at most and keep France and England from helping Confederacy at least. He took a book from the sack at his hip and threw it onto the table. It smacked the wood like a blast from a musket, but, then, the right words worked as well as bullets._

"_One of my writers made this," said Union, gaze flat as it slid over England and France. "Get off your pretentious asses long enough to give it a read. Might just learn something. I don't feel like having to 'be built on bodies and blood'"—he mangled England's accent in mockery—"more than I have to."_

_He stomped out, probably heading to send word to either Prussia or Russia. Maybe both. Out of everyone, those two were Union's biggest supporters._

_Getting up and setting down his cup of tea, Arthur went over to the table, which Francis had been closest to. His deep green eyes were pained. He wanted to help; so did Francis. Both knew the hellish agony of battle between their people. But their governments had given them orders. What they wanted held no grounds._

_England ran a hand over the novel's cover. "_Uncle Tom's Cabin_," he murmured, "by Harriet Beecher Stowe."_

All of them had been through so much.

There was no question about the possibility of insanity. Darkness was unavoidable. Jung especially had spoken on this with his concept of the Shadow Self.

Humans were multi-faceted.

Nations, however…

They were more than just multi-faceted individuals. They held imperfections, cracks, and facets all of unequal size. They changed color in light and darkness, and there was hardly any way to tell how one may act from one day to the next. They were worn like gems, held up to show pride. They were hidden away, sometimes like treasure, sometimes like skeletons better-suited for life in closets.

They were gold, silver, and lead. They were diamonds and coal. They were pearls and sand.

"But which are you right now?" whispered Francis as he heard footsteps crash through the wooded area behind him as the air took on a new scent.

A storm was coming. Nature playing out the contrast taking place in her domain.

Gilbert crashed through the shadowed greenery. "I told you he'd escaped."

There was something in his tone that stabbed at Francis's temple. "Did you know about the trap door?"

Straightening, Gilbert blinked. "_Ja_. I thought you and Artie would have maybe nailed it shut or something."

"So you knew—"

His eyes flared; he knew where the accusation was leading. "I think you should be asking yourself why _America_ didn't tell you about the hidden door."

Rage sucked out of Francis through his feet and into the soil.

America should have known about the trap door. He had been told where his brother was being kept. He had never asked about the security.

The boy had been repeating that Canada needed to be brought inside where it was warm. He had said his brother was merely sick. He had seemed more worried about Canada's state than his own, when he had been the one strapped to that chair and tortured.

That was how the idiotic "hero" was.

Yet… The threat of using the trap door of escape couldn't have simply slipped his mind, oblivious as he often seemed.

"What was it you spoke with Mathieu about?" Francis demanded. "Did he say something about Alfred?"

There was no denial of what had been seen down in the basement. There was no denying what Matthew had done, what Alfred had been through.

So why did everything suddenly seem twisted around and tossed bottom-side-up?

"As I said," replied Gilbert slowly, breath casting a fog over his pale face, "he told us to be careful around Al. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but it's obvious now you and Artie only got part of the story. Now I suggest we see where that rabbit hole goes."

He sounded like he was giving instructions to a young child scared of thunder. It made France's mouth twitch, but his pride did not fit here.

Nothing fit here.

"Rabbit hole" was the perfect phrase to use. England's hallucinogenic-ridden book _Alice in Wonderland_ seemed like the perfect allegory for how this night was going, sense-wise.

Francis nodded and followed Gilbert back to the house, finally feeling the cold. He wore only a button-up shirt and jeans, but at least he wore shoes this time. Gilbert wore a coat that hung down almost to his knees, and a knit hat covered his silver hair. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he walked with the careful grace of one unsure of what was to come.

Suspicion pumped through the blonde's veins once more.

Maybe he had told the truth, and he, for whatever reason, believed Matthew over Francis and Arthur.

Maybe he had known the plan (whatever that was) this entire time, explaining his and Lovino's sudden appearance.

What had happened before with Arthur?

Where _was_ Arthur?

The clouds blotted out the moon completely, and the distance lit up briefly, rumbling following soon afterwards.

"Let's get you a coat too," said Gilbert as they got close enough to the house France had to squint at the light pouring out from the front door. "You're starting to turn blue."

"Right." France shivered but wasn't sure if he even felt the cold. More thunder rumbled above. "_Merci_."

"_Kein Problem_," Gilbert replied, shutting the door when France entered the foyer. "There's an easy way to solve part of this."

Francis gave a nod. "Check America's room."

They turned right, the dining table next to the foyer and the archway leading into the kitchen a little further down on the left. It seemed rather humorous that the boy had the house built so his room was close to the kitchen as possible. On the dining table were the three shotguns that had been in the shed. The cleaning instruments used for them as well as several boxes of ammo were also on the table.

"We need to find England first," said France, stopping at the table, one hand on the back of the chair at its end. His thoughts were moving at a normal speed again, rather than shifting from lighting to snail's pace as it had outside. He needed to find England. Whoever it was out there, England could be in danger. Checking the room could wait. "He could be in trouble. I didn't see him out there—"

"He's fine," Gilbert asserted, hands still in his pockets as she turned, standing by the archway. "He's always been able to take care of himself."

Could he be hiding something? He sounded as though he didn't _want_ France to look for England.

Why?

What was going on?!

The suspicion spiked, and before Francis realized what he was doing, one of the shotguns was in his hands as he took the needed stance, recoil pad against his shoulder.

Hands going to either side of his head as he took a half-step back, Gilbert spluttered, "_Was zur Hölle_?!"

"Do _not_ enter that room!" the blonde commanded, chambering a slug.

As Gilbert's eyes narrowed, darkening to where they almost took on a shade of violet, Francis felt his suspicions solidify.

A shot went off through the ceiling as a shout came from elsewhere in the house.

"_Merde_!"

"_Verdammt sollst du sein_!"

France brought the gun up and then gave it a hard twist as his knee came up. Prussia, though, saw the move coming and let go and dodged, the side of France's knee skimming over the coat. He chambered another slug as Prussia grabbed one of the other two guns along with a box of ammo. He then managed to reach the archway, hiding behind the wall as a huge wall as France created a hole in the blindingly-white wall.

He then grabbed a box of ammo and ran for the waist-high wall that separated the foyer from the dining room just as wood exploded from one of Prussia's bullets hitting the white pillar that ran from the end of the waist-high wall up to the bottom of the balcony.

While France had a Mossberg pump action, Prussia had grabbed an H&R Excell semi-automatic.

Another bullet hit the pillar, nowhere near Francis's head. It was like he was more interesting in sending a message than doing any actual damage.

More yelling came from elsewhere in the house, but with the roaring in France's ears, he could not discern where.

Bullet chambered, France shot, hearing Prussia swear heavily as he got behind the wall.

"_Verrückt_!" the silver-haired man bellowed. "You're fucking _nuts_!"

_You call me crazy?_ France gritted his teeth. He did not want to think what Prussia may have been planning for him. For America.

America was fine, right?

Yes, he was fine.

He was not behind any of this, right…?

France's head hurt. He set on his original thought: Canada was behind everything and Prussia and Romano were helping. The reason, France was not sure, but he could easily find that out later.

A shot. Back against the wall. Chamber. Wait. Shot. Back against the wall. Chamber. Wait.

Two bullets hit the wall past Francis, near the couch.

Francis barely aimed before he shot, hearing a scream as he slammed his back against the wall and reloaded.

Light lit up the windows, a thunderclap following moments later.

Another shot, and the heavens opened up.

Arthur was out there.

Gilbert was still swearing.

Francis set the gun down and opened the door as another scream lifted from somewhere in the house—the basement, the Frenchman finally realized.

Wind blew open the door; picture frames toppled over from the force of the door smacking the narrow table.

"Romano?!" called Prussia, sounding pained.

France ran out into the rain, not hearing if there was any response.

Mud splashed at his feet, and chunks of ice hit his head as his hair became plastered to his head and neck. He barely felt any of it as he crashed through the woods, dodging, ducking, and jumping.

He used a vine to keep from falling flat on his back when he hit a patch of soil softer than the rest, and he did his best to remember where he was going.

At another spot where he nearly slipped, Francis stopped, finding a dark coat.

Arthur's.

It belonged to Arthur.

"_Angleterre_!" he called out as the rain fell even harder, ice larger and harder.

Nature's discordant symphony rang through his ears like the gunshots from earlier. Blue-white streaks lit up the sky, looking horrifyingly close. Thunder crashed almost immediately after.

"_Angleterre_!" he shouted again, dropping the coat and running.

The trees began to thin, and France soon came upon a kneeling, shivering form.

"_Angleterre_," France gasped, spitting out rain as tears seemed to freeze on his cheeks. He knelt by England, placing a hand on one shoulder as the shorter man's eyes widened, lips parted. "Are you alright?"

England rocketed into France's arms, knocking him onto his back. "Of course I'm not alright you frog."

His words were barely audible over his chattering teeth and the rain.

"We need to think of something quick," murmured France, shaking uncontrollably. If he hadn't felt the cold now, he felt it times ten now. His heart felt as though it was working overtime, and it was hard to breathe. "I… think Prussia… might be… working with Canada."

England sprang up and pulled France to his feet. "We need to get back there. Canada was just here. I thought it was America at first, but—" He shook his head. "We just need to get back there. America might be in danger."

"He should have woken up by now," said France as they head back into the forest, France leading the way. "And he's been feeling better. I am sure—"

"Three against one," said England. "If Prussia is part of it, then Romano might be too. Their coming is suspect, and I thought we could trust Prussia, but now I'm wondering why I was knocked out cold and he wasn't."

"None of this makes sense," muttered Francis, having to spit out more rain as he flinched at every piece of hail that hit his head.

"Absolutely none," Arthur growled. "What kind of motive could any of them have?"

"I don't know. When this sort of thing usually happens—"

France bit his tongue, and England made no reply. Both knew that when they "went dark," humans were often the targets, usually written off as unsolved cases. One of Arthur's episodes had ended up being the most famous, even up to this day, but Francis would never bring that up around him. He didn't dare.

"There was a grave," said Arthur suddenly as they reached where his coat had been dropped, Francis picking it up. "Thank you. It was recent. If Matthew really is behind all this, why bury a human's body in America's land?"

Francis thought for a moment, body shaking as lightning lit up the path. The thunder was deafening, and Francis did not answer. He had none to give. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit. No motive was in sight.

The door was still open, and a line of blood ran over the floor from the kitchen to the basement. It looked like France had caught Prussia with one of his bullets, and he remembered Romano. He'd been in the basement this whole time. There had been screams. Whose? His? America's?

France had been outside by the shed for a while.

Could Romano have—

"Check America's room," France whispered into England's ear as they formed a pool of arctic water around them. "I'll head down into the basement."

He started to unbutton the shirt, knowing it would only slow him down, how wet and heavy it was. Arthur made no comment as he hurried towards the master bedroom as quickly as he could.

Even before reaching the doorway, the chemical stench was overpowering, and Francis remembered seeing containers for transitioning pictures from film to paper in that hidden room. Alfred had only mentioned his photography in brief with a slight blush. Photographs had been found upstairs in the office as well as in the guest room and the main part of the basement.

More blood was on the pale carpet of the staircase leading down into the basement.

On a two-seater, plush couch, Prussia lay asleep. His coat was off, stuffed beneath his head like a pillow, and a crimson-stained bandage hugged his right shoulder and upper arm. He could be handled with later.

Light poured out of the hidden room, the door open a crack. France paused, straining his ears. He then inched towards the door, slowly pushing it open.

On the floor, T-shirt and sweatpants soaking in spilled chemicals, was America, unconscious.

_**Why yes, I am saying Iggy is Jack the Ripper. Or was, rather. Anyway, we're deep into suspicion and doubt. It may get better; it looks more likely it'll get worse. Thanks to y'all favoriting, following, and reviewing so far, and I hope y'all liked this chapter and what comes next! :)**_

_**German**_  
><em><strong>Ja - "Yes"<strong>_  
><em><strong>Kein Problem - "No problem."<br>Verdammt sollst du sein! - "Damn you!"**_  
><em><strong>Verrückt! - "Crazy!"<strong>_

_**French  
>Merci - "Thank you"<br>Merde! - "Shit!"  
>Angleterre - "England"<strong>_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

Strapped to the footboard post closest to the door was Romano, head down, curl drooping. He looked unconscious, and the skin around his eyes was puffy and red.

Reflex yanked England towards the brunet, but Canada could be lurking within the room, waiting for exactly that reaction. It was a sinister ploy, especially using one he claimed to love as bait.

Slowly, England stepped forward, keeping a firm grip on the shining door handle as the hinges let out a shrill tone of displeasure. There was a flash of movement to the right and the sound of stomping on wood just as light flashed through the half-open blinds of the window on the right wall.

Leaping back, Canada let out a yell that was swallowed by thunder, his arm caught between the door and frame, England's heart racing as hail pounded the roof. The lights fizzled and flickered, and the door was yanked open, crashing against the wall as England was nearly thrown into the younger nation's arms by the force.

Right foot turning and knee bending, England landed hard but used the momentum to keep turning. His left elbow was up, right hand grasping his fist to keep his arm stable. He caught only air but kept twisting, feet moving with the effortless grace of a master fencer. He'd fought with foils, rapiers, sabers, and hallstatt swords. He'd used lances, clubs, and anything lying around capable of being picked up and swung or thrown.

This boy had no idea the fight he'd chosen.

England had been an _empire_. This _boy_ should have bent the knee and asked for mercy.

Now there would be none.

His vision and sense of direction had been cut in the forest, but here, he had more of an equal footing. He could and would win.

Lightning blasted as thunder bellowed, so close, England expected to feel the air charge around him.

Canada dodged the second elbow strike and barely got out of the way of the punch coming at him at the last second. His movement was limited in the coat, and sweat was already starting to gather along his hairline. His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, purple-tinted blue eyes shining with the madness England had imagined during their earlier fight.

"Slower than usual," the younger nation huffed, catching England's fist and twisting.

England moved with the twist to avoid too much damage, remembering that this man was just as strong as his brother.

He stumbled and barely escaped an elbow to his upper back. As he rose up, movement still feeling unbalanced, he grabbed Matthew's leg and yanked hard.

They both ended up on the carpeted floor, Francis calling from the other side of the house that he'd found Alfred and needed help.

The lights flickered off.

"Little busy!" Arthur called back, rolling away and rolling up onto his upper back to jump onto his feet. His voice was drowned out by hail and thunder.

The lights flickered back on.

Arthur went forward from twin kicks to the back of his knees. Pain shot through his wrist when his hands slammed against the floor, and he gasped. Arthur grunted as he tried to push himself up, only to be flipped onto his back and thumbs went to his throat. His eyes bugged, black beginning to ring his vision.

Lights off, then back on as blinding light shone through the half-open blinds. Thunder like a bomb going off a fraction of a second later.

Gathering his thoughts quickly, Arthur bent his knees and planted his feet before stomping down so he arched up on his feet and shoulders. The sudden motion forced Matthew forward, the boy swearing in a mixture of English and French when his head hit the wall and Arthur grabbed his wrist and flipped him over. Matthew's glasses flew off.

The Brit was then straddling the Canadian and kept his arms pinned awkwardly on the wall as Arthur gasped for breath, throat feeling hard and cracked while his blurred vision returned to normal. His face was wet with tears, though he wasn't sure if they had begun falling while he was being choked or before then.

Pride said it was the pain that had made them spring.

His hurting heart said it was the nature of this fight.

England and Canada shared the same Head of State and monarch. They may have grown apart economically and politically, but they had been closer longer than England and America.

Yet, with how often Arthur had confused Matthew with his brother… He probably didn't feel like they were close, and in a way it was true.

England and Canada were close, had been for centuries.

But Arthur had always felt closer to Alfred.

It was obvious now, but it hadn't been until New Zealand had said something that Arthur realized it to be true.

"This game is _over_," Arthur hissed, breathing shallow and shaky. Water from his clothes dripped over Matthew's coat, and water from his hair dripped onto the boy's smiling face.

The smile was smaller than before, and his teeth were yellow. He'd been given mouthwash but no toothbrush or toothpaste while locked up in the shed.

His eyes, though, were empty, irises thin rings of pale purple surrounding twin black holes.

"Game?" giggling that sent icicles through England's chest and spine bubbled from Canada's list. "But Dad, the game's just begun."

Arthur punched Matthew in the jaw with his free hand, pain instantly slamming his knuckles and fingers. He punched again in the same spot when the laughter crescendoed.

Lightning and thunder hit at once, the lights zapping off and the hail seeming louder than ever.

Sharp pain, a gunshot's shriek, and a rip tide of darkness crashed in sync with the thunder above.

**X X X**

The lights flickered back on.

Breath shaking, France slowly lowered the shotgun as he stared at England's slumped body. He was still breathing. Behind him was Romano's fallen body, eyes open and red like the hole in his chest. They resembled black pits in leaves at the start of autumn, floating in twin pools of blood.

The screaming from the basement before.

The chemicals that flooded the floor of the hidden room.

There had been a fight.

When had America gotten down there?

Had he heard the commotion and had decided to investigate?

The naïve fool always leapt into action without thinking. He had to have known where the trap door in the shed led. He had to have gone down, thinking he could help.

But he would have frozen up against his brother. France had heard America talk in his sleep. He regretted what he did to Canada's Parliament buildings at York. The fool could never forgive himself of anything. It sometimes hurt to hear his over-the-top optimism, as though he were trying to make up for every wrong with smiles and cheers.

Shoving England away, Canada grabbed his glasses and staggered to his feet, nonchalantly unbuttoning his coat and untying the sash around his waist.

"Al always did keep the heat up too high," he said, hair sticking to his flushed face. "Did you really have to shoot Lovi? _Il va se plaindre à ce sujet pendant des mois_."

France had no idea who this demon wearing Canada's skin was, but he vowed to send it back to Hell.

He aimed the gun at the younger nation's chest as the dark coat was dropped onto the floor.

_Click_.

The hail pounding the roof sounded like God laughing at him. Or the Devil. France couldn't tell who was who anymore.

The smile looked like Matthew's face being split in half. White-blue light flashed from the right within the room and made his glasses glow for a fraction of a second. It was as though his soul had exploded like a supernova within him, and now there was only a black hole where it once lay, ushered in by the song of air crashing outside.

The lights flickered off, a _zzt_ sound behind the walls saying they were likely to stay that way.

"_Je ne suis pas stupide, Papa_," said Matthew in a low, even voice nearly swallowed by the hail pounding the roof like angels' gunfire. "I would not have left those out if I was sure they could be used against me."

"You missed one bullet," countered Francis, mind spinning so fast, he felt dizzy and faint. He felt as though he were about to vomit.

Thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, Matthew glanced at his boyfriend.

"Calculated risk," he replied simply, head turned so he was watching Francis out of the corner of his eye. Lightning flashed again, thunder overlapping.

He knew Arthur would have him on the ground. He knew Francis would grab one of the shotguns. Lovino had been part of this plot. The ropes had not been tied. He had not been unconscious. He had only waited until Matthew needed him.

Bile inched up Francis's esophagus, and he swallowed, feeling exhausted and ill.

But what was the next step?

Matthew wasn't moving forward.

Gilbert was still unconscious downstairs.

Unless he'd been acting as well.

Francis whirled around, but he saw only darkness.

When he whirled back around, the gun hit the floor, and his arms were pinned to his sides. His nose was inches from Matthew's, close enough for Francis to see that his pupils had nearly engulfed his irises.

"_Voulez-vous me écouter maintenant_?"

His voice was flat. Days ago, he had sounded passionate, pleading. He had sounded as though he held some form of information and was desperate to have others believe it. Believe _him_.

He now sounded as though all was matter-of-fact. He did not even sound harsh, angry, or vengeful. His air could not even be called cold.

The only way the human mind could wrap around the concept of **Nothing** was by defining it as **The absence of something**.

It was an abstract concept all knew but did not—could not—comprehend.

Looking into Matthew's eyes and hearing that tone of voice, Francis felt as though this was the closest he could ever come to comprehending this concept.

"_Pourquoi devrais-je écouter ce que vous dites_?" Francis demanded, a quiver infecting his voice and stealing its power.

He tried to move and gasped when Matthew's grip tightened. Any more, and Francis's arms would snap.

"_Vous pensez que je suis un démon_." It was not a question. Matthew knew Francis thought him to be a monster. He did not sound apologetic or with any hint of sorrow. It was merely a fact. "That might be true. Now."

Now? _Now_?

Before, he had claimed he had been helping his brother. That he had just needed to explain.

But there was no explanation. None that could warrant such a monstrous deed.

Matthew leaned in closer, his mouth by Francis's ear. "_Mais ce serait faire de l'Amérique le diable_."

He shoved Francis so his head hit the corner of the dining table. Stars crowded his vision, and he made his eyes close to slits as he stayed slumped in the uncomfortable position. His right arm was straight under his head, bent where the back of his hand hit a leg of the chair. His other arm was half-curled on his side, hand flopped over so it almost touched his back, and his legs were bent like when he was half-curled in bed. His head pounded, and his vision was almost gone, like he was looking at a darkened world through static.

For a while, the only sound was the rain and hail. It still came down hard, but when light flashed through the windows and briefly flooded the room, the thunder waited a couple seconds before launching its scream. The storm was beginning to move away.

Lying awkwardly with eyes open as slits, Francis watched Matthew head back towards the master bedroom. Most likely, he wanted to tie up Arthur before he could regain consciousness. It would probably take a few more minutes for that to happen, especially with what went on outside. They were nations, but their bodies had limits.

There had been numerous times when Francis's body shut down and he awoke to realize he'd slept an entire day away.

All of them were always pushing their limits for one reason or another.

Seeing how long they could stay awake before reality began to warp around them.

Seeing how long they could go without food or drink before their stomachs distended and their bosses forced sustenance down their throats.

Seeing how whether a limb or appendage reattached or whether a new one grew in its place—they often reattached unless separated for too long, in which case a new one began growing in its place as though they were all part lizard or starfish rather than human.

Seeing how long it took to revive from various fatal wounds.

Francis and Antonio still argued on whether reviving from beheading or burning to death was the most uncomfortable. Whenever Romania happened to be nearby, he would shut them up with one word: Impalement.

_We are all a bunch of sick bastards_, thought Francis, close to bursting into laughter. It bubbled halfway up his throat, mouth twisted in a mad grin, before he squashed the impulse. _I had hoped the young ones would not be as we were. Humans are supposed to become civilized. We'd had such high hopes when the Industrial Revolution began._

Yet, humans only got new toys and ideas to test out their depravity. Evil could not die, and its fear, rage, and resentment lived on much longer and stronger than its counterpart.

It felt like the greatest irony, Francis and Arthur calling Matthew a demon, when they had done all they had.

Parents suffered so children did not have to, but Francis and Arthur were not parents. Not like human parents. They were and forever would be France and England, nations. Relationships were different, but he wanted to try. _God_, France wanted to try.

The purpose of life was to love.

And it looked like love really was blind.

But it was still better than any other option out there. It was all he had to keep going.

Taking deep breaths, Francis pushed himself up, swallowing when bile raged up this esophagus. Some still ended up staining his tongue and dripping out of the corners of his mouth, but he ignored the taste, smell, and burning at the back of his throat and nose. He blinked rapidly, the area filling with a flash of light. Thunder followed three whole seconds later, and Matthew walked out of the master bedroom, gaze sliding towards the kitchen, ignoring the Frenchman.

"Al…?" he sang, walking silently into the kitchen. "I know you're awake. Your pawn failed. You might as well just tip over the king."

One hand on his knee, Francis got ready to spring up and attack when he heard snickering from the den, where he had set Alfred on the couch.

"Come on, bro," he sang, the tone making cold, skeletal hands run down Francis's spine. "You're supposed to say 'Olly olly oxen free.' And I always thought chess was boring as hell anyway."

Thunder rumbled as the hail seemed to grow louder, the hosts of Heaven and Hell both laughing at the realization that hopefully had not come too late.

"Only a matter of time before Romano comes to," said Matthew, voice almost a growl. "You'll be outnumbered."

Alfred gave a bark of laughter, and Francis quickly got back into the position Matthew had left him in as the American came within eyesight, looking perfectly fine. Like Francis, he was shirtless, the chemical-soaked article of clothing on the coffee table in the den.

"Not if I get you first," Alfred purred, bending down to pick up the fallen rifle.

While it had no bullets, it could be used as a club at least. In the kitchen, there was the sound of a drawer opening and metal sliding. Matthew was arming himself with a knife.

Just how many devils was Francis dealing with?

He judged the distance to the master bedroom. It shouldn't be long now before Arthur came to, he prayed, risking moving one hand so as to grasp the crucifix on his Rosary. Alfred didn't notice.

Matthew had been right about Alfred, and Francis's eyes burned with tears his pride refused to let him shed as the back of his head pounded from pain.

_They're still the boys I always knew_, he told himself, feeling less and less certain. _I only have to remind them. England can help. There's hope. There's always hope._

He darted to the master bedroom soon as Alfred leapt into the kitchen, wielding the rifle over his head like a club.

_**Oh what a tangled web I've woven (mostly by saying, "I have no freaking idea where this will lead, but I have caffeine, so let's roll with it."). But now I have an image of France managing to talk Spain into beheading him with his axe, and Spain going, "Okay, but when you come back to life, you burn me at the stake, alright?" (And Lovi eavesdrops and drags Feli to watch it with him, leaving the two traumatized but eerily fascinated.) Anyway, hope y'all liked this chapter! :) The next one should be fun.**_

_**Bonus: Random thought from back when I mentioned Canada and America first appearing when Norway showed up:**_  
><em><strong>Denmark to Norway: "You can't even get Ice to call you 'big brother.' What makes you think you'll get those two to call you 'dad'?"<strong>_  
><em><strong>Sweden: "'Merica c'lled Fin 'äiti' once." (note: äiti means "mother" in Finnish)<br>Finland: *blushing as everyone stares at him* *glares at Den when he busts out laughing***_

_**Translations**_

_**French**_  
><em><strong>Il va se plaindre à ce sujet pendant des mois = "He'll complain about it for months."<br>Je ne suis pas stupide, Papa - "I am not stupid, Papa."  
>Voulez-vous me écouter maintenant? - "Will you listen to me now?"<strong>_  
><em><strong>Pourquoi devrais-je écouter ce que vous dites - "Why would I listen to anything you say?"<br>Vous pensez que je suis un démon - "You think that I am a demon."  
>Mais ce serait faire de l'Amérique le diable - "But that makes America the devil."<strong>_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII**

_Thunk_.

The knife sunk into the drywall, pain sparking through the top curve of America's right ear as strands of golden brown sailed downward. He never took his eyes off of Canada as he yanked it out and slid to the right, curving to end up with his back at the stove, where his brother stood just a moment before.

A second dive, and America deflected the blade with the barrel of the rifle, which ended up flying out his hand from the force. His wrist felt as though it had been about to snap, and America barked out a laugh.

"Matthew Williams, with a knife!" sang Alfred. "Played a game that caused him great strife!"

Alfred turned and caught Matthew by the wrist. Alfred's back ended up at Matthew's shoulder for a fraction of a second before their combined motion ended with the Canadian being thrown at the stainless steel door of the refrigerator.

"Became the demon that he fought"—sparks cascaded downward as Alfred's knife skated down where Matthew's head had once been—"and lost the salvation he'd sought!"

There was a sting of pain when skin split just below Alfred's left shoulder, and his grin grew.

With each strike, his power intensified.

He twisted in just such a way to keep his arm from breaking when Matthew got a hand on his left arm and got the knife. Alfred ducked and turned so his back was to the pantry door, the archway leading to the dining room on his left. His motions were fluid and snake-like.

He had always been the snake slithering beneath the innocent-looking flower.

Alfred stepped in, arms coming to his face as he moved and then snapping out to block Matthew's frontal attack. The Canadian nearly lost his knives, and before he could right himself, Alfred's foot planted in his stomach, sending him back, head hitting the edge of the counter.

Matthew had always presented himself as such flower, but Alfred had always known better.

Eyes widening, Alfred stopped in surprise, his smile wavered. He then barked another laugh and yanked the blade from his right palm as Matthew got a carving knife from the drawer and dodged his brother's slash from the side.

**X X X**

_Lizzie Borden took an axe  
>And gave her mother forty whacks<br>And when she saw what she had done  
>She gave her father forty-one<em>

Eyes creaking open, England saw the room spin in a mess of white, brown, and cream. His stomach flopped, and he retched, eyes squeezing shut as he vaguely heard something behind him.

Something was going on with his arms. There was pressure. Was he tied up?

His mind spun again, the words to that macabre rhyme slamming each wall. The syllables scattered and twirled and leapt and screamed.

_Lizzie Borden took and axe_

Stinging pain in his throat and pounding in the side of his head.

_Matthew Williams, with a knife_

More whispering, the voice and tone much different from the malicious lullaby wrestling with his thoughts.

_And gave her mother forty whacks_

The pressure on England's arms lessened.

_Played a game that caused him great strife_

He was sat up against something hard. Wall, maybe? He couldn't be sure, and it felt as though weights had been attached to his lashes.

_And when she saw what she had done_

His stomach roiled again, but nothing came up.

_Became the demon that he fought_

More whispers. Hurried. Frantic, even.

_She gave her father forty-one_

Two doors shut simultaneously. There was a bark of laughter that sounded far-off and through water.

_And lost the salvation he'd sought_

Pressure on England's shoulders. They felt like hands.

"… _Angleterre_… up…"

Something dripped from the corner of England's mouth; he finally found strength to crack open his eyes.

Everything was blurry, and the pounding in the side of England's head grew worse.

"… moving…"

"France?" asked England, though he was unsure as to whether the full word escaped his lips.

There was a sigh, and the frog's image became clearer. His skin had a sickly pallor, and his sky blue eyes looked shiny, as though he were running a fever. There was crust at the corners of his mouth, and his hair was in disarray.

Before England's mind could catch up, France's arms were wrapped around him, his chin ending up where France's neck met his shoulder. Hot tears hit England's skin, and his arms moved to reciprocate the embrace.

The boom of thunder shook the Brit's world into clarity. The hail sounded like bullets hitting tin and wood. There was another bark of laughter from outside the room—kitchen?—followed by a heavy _thunk_.

"Aim's off tonight, Mattie!" Was that America?

England's heart stopped, and he slumped in France's arms as the tears streamed down.

After so long of holding everything in, his usual walls finally collapsed.

God, the git had played them both.

They hadn't been saving an innocent victim from a demon's tirade. They had been saving one demon from another.

What was that about Lucifer? How he had been God's favorite? The most beautiful?

Oh, how England had been fooled. He should have seen the darkness stirring within the young superpower. He should have seen, should have known.

Could have helped earlier.

He had suspected, but suspicions were not enough without actions to see them through justice.

"Romano hit you in the head," France informed, petting England's spiky hair. "With his elbow. I shot him in the chest. I do not know how long he has been working with Canada, but I tied him up and put him into America's closet." He paused. "America…"

"Has bodies of at least one citizen buried out in those woods," England finished in a whisper. "Possibly with many more. Help me up. We need to stop the both of them."

"Do you think we can?"

England could not recall ever hearing France sound so unsure.

Pulling away, England's hands took the Frenchman's face gently so they met one-another's gaze as the room was briefly filled with bright, white light.

"You stopped me," England whispered.

**X X X**

Sweat mixed with blood as Canada fought, the adrenaline beginning to wane. He had begun to feel the exhaustion from minimal food, water, and shelter for the past few days. His muscles cried and groaned, his stomach felt as though it were about to eat itself, and his legs began to tremor, ready for collapse into unconsciousness.

He twisted around and drove his elbow back hard into his brother's spine before spinning back around, the larger knife up and ready.

It caught on America's blade, and Canada's fingers cried in protest when the handle was wrenched from their grip. The knife clattered on the tile floor, and Canada barely dodged the thrust to his abdomen, his shirt tearing.

The knife in his left hand flipped easily at his command; a few centuries were more than enough time to learn to be ambidextrous.

The jab only succeeded in nicking America below the collar bone due to him bending back at the last moment. He spun on his back foot, and Canada matched his motions, flipping the knife again as he brought it down low for an uppercut.

With America's right hand next to useless for now (the wound was already beginning to knit itself shut), Canada had been going after that side. It had not taken long for this to become noticed, but hopefully, he was wearing down.

This was Canada's last burst of energy. If he could not take America down here and now… Lord, help them all.

The blade found a home between two of America's ribs, stopping him in place and turning his grin into a surprised _O_.

"It's over," whispered Canada, quickly yanking out the blade and earning a gasp of pain from his brother.

Giddiness spread through the Canadian's body in luscious warmth that started in his core and surged through his veins and ignited his nerve endings.

Eyes shining, he clutched America's left shoulder to keep him still as he plunged the crimson-stained blade into his stomach. He gasped again, blood dribbling over his bottom lip and splattering over Canada's face when the American coughed.

"How does your garden grow?" Alfred wheezed, his windpipe shifting as the punctured lung collapsed.

Fevered eyes narrowing, Canada sneered, "Got some 'silver bells' I can use?" He twisted the knife, another spray of blood hitting his front when his brother coughed again. "Or you do have a staircase. I don't recall you saying your prayers, Al."

"To who?"

Canada let America slump onto the tiles, the knife ripping out flesh and muscle as he did. America pressed his left hand against the wound as he looked up, smiling to show his blood-stained teeth.

"_We're_ the gods, Mattie," his whispered, glasses slipping as the life flickered in his eyes as thunder boomed in the distance. "Embr—"

The life in America's eyes finally extinguished, his eyes turning dull.

The knife fell from Canada's hand as he stood there and stared, half-expecting America to stand up again and finish the sentence: _"Embrace it."_

"I have," he murmured, the words feeling disconnected from his body. Like someone else had said it.

His body buzzed, as though the molecules making up his body were trying to come apart and turn him into some type of mist.

Not sure if he was even breathing and only half-aware of where he was, Canada made a move to pick up his brother before he was instantly sucked into emptiness.

**X X X**

"_Verflucht_," Prussia spat, rolling off the couch and landing on his hands and knees. "Fucking fuck…." He grabbed his head and tried to get up on one knee before his stomach protested. "_Schweinebacke Affenschwanz_!"

Swallowing when his stomach roiled again, Prussia pushed against an arm of the couch and got to his feet. The world instantly tilted, and the silver-haired man's throat burned when he swallowed a third time, this time also feeling sick at the taste.

He had been left unbound.

It was almost an insult, but in this situation, he was not going to complain.

He wasn't that dense.

But he'd been dense enough to trust Romano enough to not knock him out earlier.

_Clutching his upper arm, Prussia raced down the staircase to the basement and heard a loud argument in fragmented French and Italian from within the hidden room._

_Was zum Teufel?! he thought, eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle._

_Behind him, America barreled down the stairs, nearly knocking him over._

"_Oh, dude! I'm sorry," the boy gasped to where all his words ran together._

_He steadied Prussia, and the elder nation ripped his arm away from him when he tried to help him the rest of the way down._

"_Stop being a fucking boy scout for a minute and see what the fuck's going on," he commanded in a low, gruff tone._

_Blinking as though he suddenly remembered how harsh of an instructor Prussia had been towards him during the kid's Revolution, America nodded once and ran into the hidden room, shouting a swear as something crashed against the wall._

_Slowly and silently walking closer to the hidden room, Prussia took the green knife he'd snatched from the kitchen out of his back pocket. He grunted as he moved his arms, especially the right one. He pulled the plastic sheath off of the blade and tried to think of a plan._

_How to attack or defend in his current position?_

_He should have wrapped up his wound, dammit._

_Left hand pressed up against the more-or-less graze France had gifted him, Prussia's right hand grasped the knife's handle as tightly as possible. He wished his arm wasn't injured so he could have used the gun, but the kick would have been too much for him right now._

"_Mattie!"_

_Prussia grabbed Romano, who had moved so his back was to the room's entrance, around the chest, keeping his upper arms pinned to his sides as he held the point of the knife to the Italian's carotid artery._

"_This really how you want to live your last days,_ testa di cazzo_?" Romano spat._

_In the room, America ducked when Matthew threw a gallon jug of distilled water. It exploded on impact with the wall, showering America as he muttered a stream of swear words in numerous languages. He jumped over the toppled table and used the chair (it looked like one found in a dentist's office) to jump over his twin, who ducked to avoid feet hitting his face._

_America landed in a crouch, and Romano grabbed Prussia's wrist while he was distracted, pushing his hand away and up as he twirled underneath him. The Italian then yanked hard before Prussia had the chance to readjust, forcing him face-first onto the tile._

"Il stronzo_," he growled, kicking the knife towards the puddle of water as America dodged his brother's punch and looked to be on the verge of tears._

_Romano flipped Prussia onto his back before he could make a move to get up._

"_Mattie," America pleaded, "please, we can talk about this! What will it take? 'Cause—"_

_Romano slammed Prussia's head against the floor and knocked him unconscious before he could hear the rest._

Shuffling towards the hidden room, Prussia didn't see anyone, only evidence of the fight. His knife was still in the puddle of water by the cabinets in the back.

Someone had wrapped his wound, and by the lack of pain and the lightness of his head, he had probably also been injected with something.

America's doing?

So he had managed to subdue Canada and Romano?

But then…

But… outside with England….

Had he been…?

The trapdoor next to the cabinets and counter was still open.

Canada. Canada had been the one to attack. Right.

England had said to say Canada had been the attacker.

Was it because he was sure the attacker really had been Canada?

Or was England working something from the shadows as well?

Unlike Prussia, the others didn't have to worry about injuring themselves—not for long, anyway.

They'd feel pain, but they did not have to worry about mortality.

The hail was lessening, and Prussia heard voices from upstairs—England and France.

"_Vite_!" called France, sounding out of breath. "Before he heals!"

"He'll heal slower than Matthew," England replied. "Are you sure those doors and rope will hold Romano?"

"Long enough, _Angleterre_. They'll hold long enough."

Prussia had no idea what he'd missed, but it sounded like those two were coming this way with America's _and_ Canada's bodies.

Going into the hidden room, Prussia grabbed the knife and turned around to wait.

There was no telling who to trust right now, and Prussia wasn't sure how many missteps he would be allotted before God decided he had been on His green Earth long enough.

_**Why do I keep insisting on writing for this around midnight? Especially when I like to have mood music (I listen to "Time for Tea" by Emilie Autumn a lot when writing for this, since it just sounds perfect for Canada here). Anyway, some information on the rhymes:**_

_**Lizzie Borden: Girl in Massachusetts who killed her father and mother with an axe in 1892. Well, she was acquitted, and there's still speculation over who did the deed, but the popular option seems to be Lizzie.**_

_**"How does your garden grow?": From the "Mary, Mary, quite contrary" rhyme. The 'garden' is said to be speaking of the graveyard due to all the people Queen Mary I of England had killed. The 'silver bells' comment Canada makes also refers to this rhyme.**_

_**"I don't recall you saying your prayers": refers to "Goosey Goosey Gander" rhyme. It's said to be speaking of something bad happening to those who did not say their prayers correctly - namely, Protestant prayers. Catholic prayers were in Latin, and priests would hide to avoid persecution. If a family was found harboring one, they and the priest were executed.**_

**_There you go! Hope y'all liked the chapter!_**

_**Translations**_

_**German**_  
><em><strong>Verflucht - "damn it" or "curse it"<br>Schweinebacke Affenschwanz - "double-crossing ape-dick"  
>Was zum Teufel?! - another way of saying "What the hell?!"<strong>_

_**Italian  
>testa di cazzo - "dickhead"<strong>_  
><em><strong>Il stronzo - "Asshole" (note: stronger insult than when said in English, from what I read)<br>**_

_**French**_  
><em><strong>Vite! - "Hurry!"<strong>_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Warning: First part of ths chapter is a bit of a mindfuck.**_

**Chapter XIV**

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful garden. Even calling it such a common word as "garden" gives it unforgivable injustice, but the words to fully describe its magnificence would cause all listeners to die; go mad; or sit staring in the distance, never able to communicate the gloriousness their ears had been graced and cursed with to anyone without them, too, succumbing to one of these three fates.

In the middle of the garden were two trees: the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

One day, at the goading of a serpent with saccharine speech, a woman and man ate of the fruit from the latter tree. Their minds opened and expanded as the universe had before them. They felt glee, admiration, lust, guilt, greed, shame, anger, wrath, pride, love, and hatred. They felt and hungered and craved and thirsted. They wanted and longed and needed. They understood the good and thus understood the evil. They were confused by this darkness and thus were confused by this light. They understood everything, but in that, they understood nothing.

These two were cast away from the garden, their Creator knowing the deed had been done, as he had always known, always feared.

Even using the term "always" here was jejune. It suggested such a Creator's knowledge was bound to such a flimsy nuance as Time. There was no "always" or "never" with Him. There was no past, present, or future. These were merely words to help out the manifestation of such crude minds of the man and woman as well as their abundance of future children the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil had unlocked.

They could not be allowed to eat of the fruit of Tree of Life as well, as the serpent had also intended.

Their Creator could never—_Oh, there's one of those words again_—wish such torture on His children. They had been tricked by a being sent by one more powerful than they. The man and woman could not have known the danger when said danger had lain in the knowledge only the fruit had been able to unlock in the first place!

The poor creatures.

And their children. Oh, oh, their children.

They would hold the knowledge. This was a curse that would pass from generation to generation until the end of Time—_Ooh, the end of an abstract manifestation created by the minds of the cursed children, how adorable!_

Not even the Brothers Grimm could have developed a tale so terrifying! So unearthly!

Poe never knew the insanity of this sort of darkness!

Shelley and Stoker were comics in the shadows of these demons!

Dante possibly had come close, but there would be no abandoning hope for all those preparing to enter. Hope was a child of Time, after all, making any sort of abandonment or even attainment impossible.

Knowledge, morality, creation, destruction, passion, apathy, everything and nothing—simple and complicated illusions, all of it, none of it.

Most of all, there could never be a happily ever after. There could never be a sorrow-filled ever after or a darkly ever after. There would never be an ever after. "After" came when "The End" came about, and there could never be The End.

Never, the blasted word, never.

Better than "always."

Though, context typically mattered most in such assertions.

Laughter bubbled upwards within America's throat.

Or he thought it did.

He couldn't actually feel his throat.

He couldn't actually _feel_.

He wasn't sure if he even _was_, really.

But he wasn't… _wasn't_… if that made sense.

Of course it didn't.

Nothing did.

But claiming "Nothing made sense" asserted this sentence made sense, thus making it untrue.

Oh how entertaining existence was!

This surrounding darkness was not real. The Others were not real.

But the darkness _was_ real. The Others _were_ real.

There was no illusion _or_ reality. Or even illusion _and_ reality. Illusions simply _were_ reality while also simultaneously parted from it. Only a Creator that promised The End of a pitiful nuance that could not end could even begin to comprehend.

There was no hope for the rest of them.

"No luck going there again," said the Other that looked most different from the other Others. "You're giving the rest of us a devil of a headache."

This Other's turquoise eyes narrowed from behind wire-framed spectacles. He wore a grey uniform, a couple short locks of ash brown hair falling over his forehead.

"Well, he _is_ the devil," muttered the Other standing opposite of America. He looked the most like him. They were even wearing the same black _The Cake is a Lie_ T-shirt. His darkening blue eyes never left America's, his lips pressed into a straight line.

At the same time, the Other opposite of Confederate sneered, "Pretty sure _you're_ the one giving everyone a headache."

His accent reeked of the Northeastern coast as much as Confederate's reeked of the Southeastern.

"Both of y'all, shut it," said a female Other with thick, red-blonde curls as America smiled at the Other across from him and purred, "That is a beautiful compliment, thank you."

The female other wore a flannel shirt over a white top that only covered her breasts, and the sleeves of the flannel shirt were rolled up to her elbows. The buttons were undone, and Confederate muttered something about modesty as he looked away, blush dusting his bronze-toned face.

Stomping a cowboy boot-covered foot, and female Other placed her callused hands on her hips, one hip cocked.

"Modesty my saddle-sore ass," she told him as Union looked away, looking ready to laugh. "You're wearin' me on your face, hun. Need me to sit on it to show ya more?"

She grinned and winked one of her large, emerald-green eyes, knowing it made Confederate uncomfortable.

"What does that mean?" asked a young boy, wearing a white gown that covered his feet. A red ribbon went about his neck, and clutched in his hands as a wilting blue flower.

An Other wearing a uniform with a blue coat and a musket in one hand ruffled the young Other's dirty blond hair. "Never mind that."

"You'll learn when you're older!" sang another female Other, her dirty blonde hair wavy and to her shoulders, the bangs pinned back by yellow star barrettes. She dropped the metal bat she'd been holding and got on her knees to hug the young boy.

"Me too?" asked another young Other, her hair frizzy and more of a nest than waves that fell halfway down her back. She was dressed like a Puritan child.

"Of course!" the female Other gathered the other young Other so they could have a group hug.

_Cute_.

Confederacy's eyes found him again. "Don't feel so high and mighty," he warned. "Pride's your downfall."

"And you would know," Union sniffed.

"Would y'all put your dicks away?" the Other that was Texas yawned. "It's over."

"It's never over," said the Other opposite of America. "And stop referring to yourself as 'America'." His eyes almost looked grey now. "That's _me._"

"And me!" the female Other hugging the young Others chided, cheeks puffing out as she pouted.

The young Others giggled.

"And me," said Confederacy and Union simultaneously.

Texas shrugged. "I'm _part_ of y'all."

"As am I." An Other in a full suit, hair parted and gelled so it was out of his face.

He wore a fedora, and his arm was around the waist of a female Other, her hair cut to her chin and curled inwards. A sparkling headband kept it in place, and a large, black feather poked up from the band's side. She wore a knee-length slip of red and held a cigarette at the end of a black-and-gold holder in one hand.

"And I," she intoned, smoke flowing out and curling around her words.

"Yeah, man," said an Other, giving a lazy smile. His eyes were hidden behind purple-tinted glasses, and his hair fell past his shoulders, wavy. He wore a beaten denim jacket and smelled of marijuana.

"Right." This Other was dressed like Texas, face shadowed by a cowboy hat.

At the same time, an Other that looked to have walked off the stage in the middle of a showing of _The Crucible_ said, "I, also, am part of 'us'."

"All of us," said an Other with tattoo sleeves and an inverted pentagram hanging from his neck.

"We are all one."

"But many."

"Diverse."

The void filled. More and more Others marched inward, bodies crowding.

Every citizen, throughout time. Every human being, Native Americans weaving through all the bodies until they were everyone else, parts of America.

The Other that had been standing opposite of him was now right in front of him, their noses touching. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he was silent.

Suddenly, it felt as though America were seeing from above, all these people. It was as though he'd suddenly grown a million eyes.

Angels were supposed to be covered in eyes, right?

How horrifying for creatures whose names were used to describe beauty. Then again, that was probably the point, even if no one ever really grasped it.

"You could never grasp it" came a cacophony of voices. "You have millions of eyes, born from all these masks the ages demand, and yet you cannot see."

"Millions of ears and yet cannot hear."

"All mouths moving at once yet only projecting discordant notes."

The voices were everywhere and nowhere. Within him and outside of him.

Who was he?

They were all America.

They were states.

Land.

But also states of mind.

Colonies.

People.

Ideas.

Beliefs.

Cultures.

Practices.

Past and present.

Future?

What was the future?

What was the past and present?

Who was he?

He was many. He was one.

He was of the most cursed children of all.

Pain.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Painpainpainpainpainpainpain

The agony was constant and struck in quick successions with the power even lightning paled in comparison to.

Laughter bubbled.

It was silenced by a scream.

The scream died, no muscles able to work to give it life.

Then it couldn't die. It was never born.

America's back arched, and all was gone.

His eyes snapped open, but everything was crafted from half-formed blurs and shadows.

Hot pokers struck his stomach and chest, digging in deep and growing hotter and hotter. The pain exploded, and scream after scream finally broke free.

Free.

Life.

Now.

There was nothing but the inferno in his gut shooting up through his chest and trying to cut make his head explode. There may have been tears. He thought he heard whispers.

They were America.

They were America.

_He_ was America.

All of a sudden, it was like the inferno kissed Noah's flood, leaving America's body slumped and splayed. Remnants of the agony hummed through his veins, and his entire body was soaked in sweat.

He'd been dreaming.

No, that was impossible. He'd been dead, not asleep.

His body had needed to recalibrate itself so he could come back to life, but even if there was consciousness after death, there had been no stories from any of the nations to back up this claim with personal experience. Death for them was merely a blink. And pain, as though all of Heaven and Hell sought to torture them as much as they could, condemning their refusal to stay dead like the humans they served.

_Humans are God's children_, thought America, breathing heavily through his mouth as more shocks struck his crown and down his spine. _What does that make us?_

More whispers, murmurs, and questions, but they did not come from within, without, and all around as before.

These voices were limited, coming only from outside America's mind.

Movement. Pressure. Softness. Coolness. Dampness.

Tears blurred America's vision as he cracked his eyes open. A damp cloth spread coolness through his forehead, and he was resting on the couch in his basement, the wide-open door to his photography room in his line of vision.

He hadn't been able to take pictures of Thanksgiving dinner this year.

_That's okay,_ thought America, eyelids growing heavy and body feeling as though it were sinking lower and lower from exhaustion. _I still have the pictures from Mattie's Thanksgiving dinner._

He hadn't developed the film yet. He needed to take a few more pictures. Maybe he and Canada could have a bonfire. America loved taking pictures of fire.

"… ky?"

That wasn't Canada's voice.

America tried moving his lips but couldn't.

Then he remembered: He'd woken up in his room, England and France there.

America had lost it again. He still didn't know how many people had died. His stomach roiled, and his entire body went cold. He shook, and the damp cloth was taken away.

Ruby eyes met his.

Prussia.

His face was blurred, but there was a splattering of red over half his face, dripping down his neck. He wore America's _Jack Ryan's Sea Slug Brand Atlantic Harvested Plasmids_ T-shirt. It wasn't stained, telling America he had pulled it on after whatever had happened.

When did Prussia get here?

"Are you okay?" his voice still sounded distant in America's ears, but he recognized the words this time.

Only air came up, and America could not muster the strength to even move his head. His eyelids were so heavy. He had millions of questions, but his brain was too sluggish to form even one whole one. His thoughts were only half-formed at most, the world a haze, as though he were still dreaming the dream he was sure never actually dreamed.

Prussia's eyes shimmered as he combed America's hair back from his face, forcing a smile to where it looked more like a grimace.

"Just rest, okay?" he whispered. "Everything's fine now, I promise. No one can keep down the awesome me."

_What happened?_

By the time this thought built up the strength to echo through America's mind and travel towards his mouth, his eyes were closed, mind already drifting into unconsciousness.

_**I tried to finish this before class, but I ended up almost being late and waited until afterwards. I have six classes this semester, so updates may end up coming more slowly for a while. But we're getting closer to the end, so I'll be trying to not wait too long. Anyway, sorry if the first part of this chapter was confusing, but I wanted it to reflect America's mindset as well as a general mindset of the nations at large. Anyway, hope you liked it! And I hope those in the northern hemisphere reading this are staying warm! :)**_


End file.
